Dreaming Days of England

In my mind I see England,
Big Ben, The Tower of London,
Liverpool and museums, perhaps
for Beatlemania.  Not too much to ask
as I anticipate my first International journey,
yet I know preparation comes first and so be it.
I am ancient of days ready to do this International.

And so I ready myself like a good scout, like a
city planner or a conscientious farmer, checking
if my passport is up to date—avoid the obvious
border wars, scowls and guffaws suffering
the lawless; okay, seems to be current.
This wallet cousin casts forth legal
access to the realms of lands
other than home. 

At home here, I am an oyster on a reef,
at sea impatient longing for midnight flight,
dreaming days of Heathrow touchdown, glad
in fact to gawk and gaze the English countryside,
ride the double-decker buses daring narrow streets.
Readiness rears ahead to scold me like a Holy Family
Nun; the need is the needle, attention the thread so
darn personal priorities 

like I am want to do, mostly, in the day-to-day
without the kid inside chomping at the bit,
crying wee as if it were Christmas Eve—
say, do I need a haircut?  What about
my wardrobe?  I should brush up
on British sayings and slang,
like someone, mad about
their flat—it doesn’t
mean they had
a blowout. 

England calls yet I am slack:
beseeched myself, more than
once, up my game, repair prepare,
cast internal giggles off, espy those little
details, secure all boats, hoe long and
straight the groundwork of going. 
Greater is the need. 

40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp Winner
7-25-19