Craig W. Steele

Tourists in Trafalgar Square surge
around the base of Nelson’s Column like
rogue waves breaking upon a weathered shore,
their ebb and flow a gaudy tide, with
less cohesion and cooperation than
the sea’s unlivened molecules.

Like sightseers thronging any Boardwalk,
they buoy local denizens, buying twice-priced
trinkets, Made-in-China mementos of their travels, as
unaware of traps as lobsters in a pot.

I appear to be the lone beachcomber here,
collecting treasures freely from the concrete strand:
sifting, sorting, storing priceless memories.