5th & last London dispatch:
Road sat at the picnic table at Trafalgar Square, London.
Road ~ bank robber, book smuggler, prison-wall crumbler, a walking-talking impossibility from America ~ sat at the picnic table (Trafalgar Square has at least one picnic table somewhere, doesn’t it?). The young outlaw sat and brooded, chin in hand. He was virtually stamped and delivered to the enchanting isle of Great Britain, at the tail-end of the dog-month of August, 2011, in the wake of the destructive & somewhat youthful rioting there.
The ghosts Sir Winston Churchill, Mahatma Gandhi, were gone. They had picked up the checkerboard and checkers and disappeared into thin foggy air. And on the bench at the table, in the late afternoon shadows, Road transformationed ~ he shrank, he turned, with a smokey little fizzle, he turned into nothing more and nothing less than a cheap, yellowed and worn, and here and there torn, short paperback novel ~ pages turning, oh so lonely, in the whistling wind.
a short novel
delivered to London!