Day One Hundred and Sixty Eight-London Calls By Chaos A thousand rays of good morning, laze through an eastern window, exchanging cordial greetings with the crystalline pane, as they pass from out to in. One chattering group of radiance in motion find a dance floor of auburn hair and start a conga line that roves from strand to strand celebrating cinco de mayo with golden abandon their hot song, smelling gaily of tacos, frijoles, y margaritas, I sit, the taste of cinnamon and pecan fading from lips, recalling the sticky sweetness of a breakfast meant for days such as this, when diets are forgotten. New adventures slow the advance of hours, minutes, seconds, prolonging the delicious sense that possesses neither aroma, sight, nor aural stimulus: …anticipation Distant strains of the Aboriginal band, warmed by three dogs at night, chant “momma told me not to come.” I ignore the warning, thinking “This is the way to have fun.” The song fades into the echo of a Diamond, Neiling as he tells the stories of so many like myself, that have “sweated beneath the same Sun,” whose offspring continue their follicular dance, upon the head of the shapely redhead, who awaits her own adventure at a neighboring gate, a look of moonless wonder in her innocent eyes, neither of us wanting to be “Done to Soon.” London calls and I will heed the haunting invitation, her misty isle, steeped in the richness of history, her vines of ivy, binding my own colonial heritage irrevocably to hers. As I leave the land of my birth, I travel home to meet two uncles, who passed beyond my grasp, years before I had arms with which to reach. Stepping onto the ramp that leads to the same sky Watching over the Blessed Isle, a voice rings above the din of shuffling travelers, “To the person who lost a gold Rolex… …it’s 7:52.”
Posted on: Tue, 24 Sep 2013 05:19:06 +0000
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