“Hey, sister, can you tell me where a man might find a bed?”

Those times when we would

Walk across plains  to see

A place whose face was home

For a time; a nose and mouth

In addition to our own,

A pulse whose tick was echoed

Through the day, however far.


Our wrists are severed now but

The rhythm still goes on even though

No tie but nostalgia links our veins,

Our roots are intertwined by

The strengths we shared and

Weaknesses we endured together.

Commuters, Northern Line, London 6:32 to 6:37 p.m



Breaking in two,

The other bit

Crude, dry

Scab, ready to

Drop off.

Reach rail,

Look on, Forget

The week gone

Wrong, soak

It up with

Paper sponge, the

Metro swab –

Clean dirt with

Dirt, hold it

Tight –

Jolt – shifts

The train –

Hand flesh is felt, ridges

From another

Land, fingers and


“What can you see?”

It says, this finger-

Feeling attached to

A voice, somewhere


“What do you mean?

I’m reading.”

“Exactly, you said it,

Not me.”

“?”  says his face,

“!” says her nose –

Her mouth opens

Once more – “You are

Reading not seeing –

If you saw what you read I

Know you’d stop

Dead in your tracks.”

“You’re mad, he said.”

“No, the Metro’s for

Fools, sponges,

You might say.”

She meant no

Offence, only

To break through,

Shatter the

Void stretched

In that two

Foot  space, wedged,

Stuck between

Him and herself,

Embankment and Waterloo.

(25th November)