London 2009

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As I turn left off Oxford Street
cloaked in a low sky and shuffling
along with the other furrowed brows

I search for the accent of my youth
“Tomato” or “Tomahto” or “Tomata”
“Aunt” or “Ant” or “Auntie”

Punching my cold fists into a
Harrods jacket I enter the tube,
shortly reaching another
grey gray station and soon see
a pub with an old fashioned
clock against the liquored mirror,

damn, it’s way past our meeting time
and am I at the right place?

I really could go for
comfort food now, we need this

connection

“Buffalo Wings?” Or is it “Fish and Chips?”
Maybe “Saltfish?”

Which of these do I want?
Eh, it’s too late for such a
search.

A sudden hiss of wind
angrily flaps my jacket, and
a raindrop

taps my shoulder-
as a stranger does when they have
wandered and need
direction.

The rain falls. The sun falls.
The fog falls. The days fall from
the harboring arms of mothers.

I walk alongside the parcelled flats,
pausing at a low bridge and look out at
the bruised dusk of the Old World
as the wind swings my bag
against the cold.
Oh, come now – and dance with me
Caribbean.

The Reader by Rebecca McCue