A Pogues song burned through his head while the city rambled, taking no notice,
brooking no complaints.
Cobblestone roads he tried to ignore, just like his map.
Tourists were targets.
Mouth shut, eyes ahead, wallet in his front pocket.
Pickpockets were legion since Dickens, as famous as Trafalgar
Square and more enduring than Nelson's touch.
Bored. He was bored with wonder and angry at himself for losing it.
He missed her. The sun without a shadow was just a grey haze.
So, he entered the greasy din of the Dying Lotus.
The hostess's bad English felt like home,
his accent as foreign as jade dragons in perfidious Albion.
He ordered the usual, took his butter knife and went to the bathroom downstairs.
In a jagged minute he cut out his tongue.
Just to be safe and sound.