Jet lag, Kensington

Stray London headlights
slant up
frame film noir shadows
on a darkened 4 a.m. ceiling.
In the next flat
someone speaks
a sink fills
and drains again
and the sink in my flat
gurgles
in sudden loud empathy
breaking
the perfect bubble
of muffled quiet
that I imagine
to protect me
from the dull rushing hum
of this city
living through the night.
From the fenced park
across the street
a handful
of Kensington drunks
shouts briefly
and I turn over again
in the creaking bed
and wait wide eyed
for my slow deliberate soul
to catch up
to my trans Atlantic body.