Flying above the quaint little houses under Heathrow.
London looks dirty,
but I keep this epiphany to myself in the baggage claim.
I land to a red-faced drunk at an outdoor pub.
He swaggers with unwavering condence.
The brewing tension of a street ght.
Each step is like broken glass exploding on cobblestone that has
seen quarrels centuries old.
Slated in nostalgic hubris.
A nation birthed the oldest child.
It’s too cold,
and too mean.
But poets,
they hate everything.
So I keep calm
And
FUCK OFF.