Return Ticket to Happiness
Coffee at Monmouth, in Coventry Garden.
I cannot get enough of London’s warm mornings, having coffee at Monmouth while sitting on the sidewalk, as if in Monaco.
Such mornings in September make the heart glad.
This last year has been a year like none before, flying away, walking away, driving away, in rooms and out of rooms, bar to different bar, and the lack of love dominates all thought and often supersedes true thinking.
Songs are written and rewritten to help pass the time and for my reference only. Songs from younger days or yesterday, this morning or a time back beyond the responsibility of memory.
Loving in London is a collective of ideas only, laughable to some, and sad to many but still, no one dies from a lack of love, but by battling its addiction.
From my seat, I see an old man walking toward Soho, carrying his home inside a supermarket trolley. What poetry does his life know? He keeps walking.
In London he cannot afford a return ticket to happiness, or if he could, would there be someone at home waiting for him?
This morning, like many mornings, I look out on London streets and think how I lucky I was to be taken by the hand of good fortune.
Happiness is always having a new shirt in the closet, food in the fridge, and knowing I’m the most loved man in the world.
