Saturday in London

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Abstract

ups on the way down, you know what I mean, a sentence shining — two deleted.</p><p id="016c">There are as many homeless women as there are monuments. Those society has left high and dry are always heads down, looking for something, something none of us can see because they’re looking for reasons like there’s one owed to them. I’ve seen so many; they’ve come and gone. I could love them all, but I’m happy with one.</p><p id="4e77">St. Martin’s church bell is ringing in the fading light, bringing Shakespeare’s ghost and the need to write as if yesteryear is touching me. Strikes me hard with every bell. I’ll have a Big Mac, make some notes, and a lunchtime beer before Chaucer drives me to Soho.</p><h2 id="53e2">Karen Schwartz, Nancy Oglesby, Katie Michaelson, Bernie Pullen, Michelle Jimerson Morris, Amy, Julia A. Keirns, Tina, Pat Romito LaPointe, Brandon Ellrich, Misty Rae, Karen Hoffman, Susie Winfield, Vincent Pisano, Marlene Sa

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Before skipping an hour of sleep

Image: Author

Tonight, in London, the clocks are sprung forward; I wish I could turn the clock back to a different time when nothing terrible ever slipped past mid-day.

My head spins around on Piccadilly Circus, but where are the clowns and lion tamers? Only the black cabs and a glimpse of sunshine cause me to shutter my eyes, and I wonder if I’ll ever get across the road before I touch the stars at midnight.

If tomorrow were my guide, he’d be standing an hour closer to midnight, but I’m assured he won’t come until 2 a.m.

Only a page of polished words stands in the way of me leaving Piccadilly, a page of too many ups on the way down, you know what I mean, a sentence shining — two deleted.

There are as many homeless women as there are monuments. Those society has left high and dry are always heads down, looking for something, something none of us can see because they’re looking for reasons like there’s one owed to them. I’ve seen so many; they’ve come and gone. I could love them all, but I’m happy with one.

St. Martin’s church bell is ringing in the fading light, bringing Shakespeare’s ghost and the need to write as if yesteryear is touching me. Strikes me hard with every bell. I’ll have a Big Mac, make some notes, and a lunchtime beer before Chaucer drives me to Soho.