Urban Amnesia

My first poem in London turns out to be 90% about Ohio :)

I’m forgetting the ten-minute brunch stroll on Thursday mornings.

Crisscrossing alleyways,
I’d stop every six steps to take photos of 
flowers in someone’s front yard
and other Ohio townie eccentricities.
A place where nothing happens 
yet every corner is teeming with tiny love.

At the intersection of Adam and East Blake,
an outsider shrub wavers in the sun
and invites the passerby to pilfer 
a few blossoms for the vase
in her friend’s kitchen.

And they cling to her fingers like cockleburs.

The door opens with a big hug wrapped in a cable-knit.
As my friend gently mingles the matcha powder and water 
with a bamboo whisk,
their love-and-flaxseed-pressed dough in the oven rises, golden brown,
and the buttery warmth tangos into my nose.

We gaze into the backyard on the patio stairs,
holding our mugs,
tasting hints of maple syrup, infused with lavendar,
and wonder for how much longer 
the trees will dress in green.

These days,
I notice myself picking up and putting down a basket
of beautiful-looking fruit;
too heavy to carry,
yet I can never decide what to toss away.

London,
a brain of shooting neurons.
Its people tightrope on streets that are 
wide as canyons yet thin as mycelium.
Its concrete wrapped in
statements and fragility.

I’m forgetting that even when everyone 
charges forward, heads-down,
I could still smooth my pace –– dance a little, even (in my heart!).

Especially when the friend next to me
is worth all my loving gaze.