Piccadilly Circus

I just woke from a dream

That you and I were at

Piccadilly Circus

In London

And we hobbled up and down 

Each of the crooked stone stairs

Of every tiny antiqued burlesque house

Within several blocks radius.

We breathed in 

Make-up powder and stage dust

Stale sweat and dirty lingerie

Spilled wine and beer

Glitter and pasties.

We inhaled a foreign history together.

The girls weren’t necessarilly attractive

But their bodies were good

And the shows

Although similar...

Each showed an individual talent 

With a nostalgic majesty for the craft.

They kept us entertained in the dirty seats.

We spent the afternoon 

Into evening like that

Often going backstage

To talk to the performers

Offering them American cigarettes.

I got the same vibe

As when we visited 

The retired burlesque dancer’s shop

On South Street 

In Philly

Where they handmade elaborate costumes and underwear

For strippers

And we hung out

Talking for some time

With the owner

Who reminded me of Phyllis Diller.

Home is simply 

Never very far away.