I like London
even when I’m breathing in chemical cancers burped up by buses
and dodging dog turd seeping into the pavement when I’m out for my run
the dozens and dozens of cookie cutter couples
humming around like bees in beanies and bright baseball jackets
that drip vintage down to their kneecaps.
I like London
the convenience, the ease of delivery, the lattes brewing around every corner
that gaping chasm beneath our feet
where people sit and sweat
and bounce from borough to borough in a rattling box
that spot on our walks where buildings bruise the battered skyline
and shed the puffy clouds.
talking to my pillow. 