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London


by Darryl Price


We were waiting for an unseen state of 
new mind, to be quite honest. It wasn't 
to be found in the fat bellied beer, although 
we tried. The amber colors did seem 
to mix well with the rain, if you looked with 

only one eye open, into something 
else altogether, silly and possibly 
serene looking. I liked seeing all 
those bright styles of wet plastic coats of arms, 
walking around like slippery chessmen, 

never really meeting, but coming awfully 
close. Swiveling this way and that, 
looking for the right paths in the dark lights, 
ringing like silent bells in between the 
shaggy youthful gangs of roving high winds. 

We were like mice packed into crowded cardboard 
packages, stacked on top of each other, 
watching for something other than the 
somber nightly news to appear coming 
through that doorway, straight at us, to chase our 

deepening blues away. The beer was disappearing 
faster than we could drink it, 
but we managed to catch up somehow. But 
the damnedest thing was the color green, not 
just any green, but glowing, living in 

a burning light of its own skin, manufactured 
from within, that could still be seen 
heavily on fire everywhere you looked, 
as if it lived in a world of its own, 
thrown down and on top of every street's parkways 

like heavenly confetti. It didn't 
just melt or stop beaming or begin 
washing away in any sense of the 
word. It simply waited, like a good dog, 
for whatever we were up to, whatever 

we were doing, to end, so that we 
could once again take up the familiar 
gait together and get on with it 
all. Which we eventually did. And
that color's all that's left of the story.
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