United Kingdom

I can feel the inside of my head
and it is clumped up like avocado on toast.
Telepathy is so integral to mornings in London.
The people here speak with accents
I can imitate without being detected.
Simply, I am in a movie about an American
pretending to be British in the United Kingdom.
Brick Lane bystanders envelop
me with the coarseness of chapped lips.
A pillow with a chocolate on it
or the posh evening turn down
lend themselves to an overall sense of ease.
I am so used to leaning in front of someone
and muttering you suffer from pronation,
that even in The Tube I think: wrong shoes.
This city is by my side.