The Journey Home

A humid, heavy yawn folds up the day

and marks the seconds on the bright departure clock;

scrolling hours unending, unbegun,

whilst I struggle to hold a single working thought;

smutted by the backstreet walk through Soho,

now prostituted to a clutch of drunks.

I screw my face to shutter in the light:

you’re hovering, frosted in the glass;

our greeting gaze hammered out on years,

opening a prism to our eyes.

You know me ironed and frayed, still your man:

facing, and waiting as you wake;

pierced even as the swaying gently dies,

touching even as the hollowed train arrives.