The Spot I've Got

I've begun to want to come to London
once again: the threads of my fleet history
entangle sometimes into shapes resembling
a beckoning – the rising ghost of an appurtenance,
for instance, like the spatula I used when
I was twenty in the basement kitchen of
the brick Victorian apartment house I lived in
as a student, thirty-six agglomerated years ago:
the interest that I took in English bacon –

curling, frizzling, pink and thick: the quickened
pulse of relishing the prospect of another day
in which I might survey the oddly charged
romance of being me away from everything:
the scent of diesel fuel in late October late-night
streets: the severed sense of weaseling to find
new ways to sing quite out of reach of what
I used to think was home – the cream of teas
and painted window moldings: I would like, I think,

to drink again that dream of roaming wide of one’s
parameters: to build the glow of a mysterious
and private sweet theocracy – geography
run by the secret godlet-rivulets of soul in me –
to see if that’s where I might find an echo of my first
most shimmering discovery – that one could
find a place and play a part that answered what
was aching in a heart. I've begun to want to
come to London once again – but, maybe not.

I like the spot I've got.