Tuesday, June 19, 2012
London Swall'wing: Part III (Poetry Tuesday Edition)
Too many cars too close
along the road to Trotsky's house
It's hot. I wanted to go to London.
Sweaty-wet baby on me, we stop
at a gas station for water
and antiperspirant. No omnibus in sight.
I'm hungry, too,
and afraid to eat street meat. I
speak too much English; I feel rude.
No biscuits, no shortbread.
AeroMexico doesn't serve cookies.
And now, at the coyote fountain
We've walked too far
to see the bullet holes that were Trotsky's.
The baby won't even try our
helado de arroz con leche.
Blisters pulse. My bandaid slips.
I long for rain or fog.