32 King Street, or, an ode to a country behind

i wake up to church bells

and i look out the window and over my sleeping brother.

the mornings are birds chirping and distant engines and the sun shines warm through white clouds 

over the ancient city and

it looks so positively english and 

i wish i had a picture i could show you.

but i wear my adidas and my ben sherman and i walk to the cafe 

across the cobblestone path so narrow and so medieval.

the chatter of early saturday morning floats through the air

like seagulls over the limestone cliffs as the 

bells in the golden cathedral ring again,

and the sun warms skinny boys with shorts and no-show socks,

and the sun warms the fountain as schoolboys lounge around the cathedral’s open gates.

i stop and look down the old street with the curry house on its corner

as i put my hands in my pockets and smell pastries from the cafe to my right.

it has a red sign with thin white writing that i could never quite make out

and i see down the street a lady walking a little brown dog

and it looks so positively english and

i wish i had a picture i could show you.

this is not my home but i feel as though i could stand by this fountain forever and

watch the skinny boys sitting with the skinny girls as they idly pass the time saying nothing much at all

and see the teenagers in their blue uniforms laugh as they push one another about

and watch the families with their children as they dance around the fountain by the cathedral

and see the people sit around the cafe

as they chat and drink their coffee without much concern for the ringing bells

and listen to the quiet early mornings that are birds chirping and distant engines purring

and feel the sun shine warm through white clouds

and i will

hear the bells ringing through the years

like stones in a wall