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.