Nancy P. Schnader Award, 2017

I lacked the depth of the underground

when I first arrived in London.

Tour guides were just textbooks:

skimmed, but never read.

Trapped in high school temperament,

I tread water. Afraid to cross over

into the deep end of reality.

I had a tight grip on my past, the same way

the lonely man at the pub held onto his pint.

 

But wisdom rushed along the Thames,

speaking Shakespeare and Tolkien;

and truth seeped like syrup

down the walls of St. Paul’s cathedral.

Architecture etched with history

erected cultured pillars in my soul and,

as if Ben’s hands stopped ticking, I paused;

Raindrops washed away childhood dependence.

In the wind, I felt my future.

 

My younger self stayed in London

and she would not cross Abbey Road alone,

and she swore she’d never drink tea.

I found depth down the escalator

of Westminster station

sipping Guinness, not soda,

Singing theatre, not pop songs.

And like Kensington Gardens in the spring,

I have grown.