London IV

We saw the Queen. Bright purple pill box hat.  Lost, from a different time.  She emerged from behind the bars like history fleeing a museum.

London III

We never mourn toy soldiers. They end their lives in waste bins, or under the burning ray of a magnifying glass on a sweltering July day. I wonder if they have toy wives and children to mourn their loss. Barbie in a black lace veil. A Cabbage Patch child crying saline tears.

London II

From this distance, it is a matchbook structure. A pale frozen miniature. A bread crumb I could crush with my pinky finger. And leave it crumbling, tumbling, falling down.

London I

For a second all noise ceased. Frail and hunched, he leaned on his cane. Yet, his eyes told a story of a strong, proud man. A slightly sad man. His eyes spoke of knowledge. Knowledge that one is often not the better for having.