Walkways 1

I leave my damp hotel
to walk to the park.
I am too lazy to change hotels.

They put me at a breakfast table
facing into the corner of a basement.
It is the only thing that has made me laugh
since I got to London.
I eat my runny eggs and cold toast,
staring into the cement corner.

I am ha ha ha.

I walk through the St. James’s Park.
The leaves are falling across the path.
I find a bench,
sit, and ruminate on how much I hate you.
And how sad I am that you are gone.
I thought to see the changing of the guard,
but I am too busy on the bench to get close.
I think I would like a piece of black paper
to write down your name
every time I think of you.
One side would say EVAN.
The other side would say HATE.
I imagine burning them
in a fire on one of the high bridges crossing the Thames.
Maybe the pretty one by the tower
where they tortured people.
I imagine little bits of your memory
floating away and then landing
as ash sinking into water.
I am ash ash ash.

It’s not London.
I’ve loved the city before.
It is me me me.

The crowd leaves.
I wander to the British Museum.
I want to see the Rosetta Stone again.
But I come to myself
standing dumbstruck
before a descent of angels
with blue wings.
The angels tell me,
that your absence
did not create this hole.
Your presence had only covered it up.
I am oh oh oh.

I walk to Westminster.
I push at the ragged edges of the hole,
finding its shape.

I stop.

From behind the door,
the blue-winged angels are singing.
I put my ear against the wood to listen
And I am also ave ave ave.

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