Gratitude
“Hate it here? But why?”
I’m sick of your confounded cry.
London is Open—
But when is a kind word spoken
At 8 AM when elbows stab your side,
A slouching drunk swallows your Pride,
And grinning altruists shiver and wait
For you to blink and take their bait?
And so we move in clogging thuds,
Weave through drying gum and blood.
London, what are you doing?
Are you even awake?
“City that never sleeps”? I’m suing.
You plagiarize for tourism’s sake.
London, you pander to the saints,
Resign yourself as relatively quaint.
You barely know where you end,
You hardly care when around the bend
The streets are piled with shoveled debris;
You gentrify, refine, on your austerity spree.
I want to love your complacency,
That languid beauty in every face you see;
You have extolled diversity.
You lack sincerity.
If Broadway bleeds, the West End is dry—
Not “if”, that’s exactly what I mean by
Passionless, reserved, ancient, tranquil;
I repine, I whine, but still I’m thankful.
As I dissociate on your timely Underground,
Elton’s voice sings, “for the people I have found.
Image: Daniele Idini