A London 4th of July

I remember a July 4th in London, the day we hold our secret subversive holiday in our hearts, even though there’s no mention of it on the telly or in the tabloids. Wonder why they aren’t celebrating, we joke in our arrogant Yankee manner.

We’d seen a Tempest at the Globe as groundlings, standing in the middle space between the respectable patrons and the magical action, which explodes into our midst: Ariel on a rope arcing over our heads, Caliban snarling his complaint directly to the startled crowd.

Then, joyous with Prospero’s spells and with aching legs, we half-limped half-danced across the Thames toward St. Paul’s and the Tube back to our flats. And (I swear) when we were halfway across the river some unseen Prospero set off an arsenal of fireworks from the Tower Bridge south of us.

Our secret was out.