South

In theory this is a fast train

heading for London. He hopes no one

speaks to him or asks for help.

Help’s a big-ask so early.

Sky gray and the table

in the carriage is a meter long, half

a meter wide. Other people sleep or yawn.

Could be he’ll write a poem or

clock a few emails. Maybe read a book.

He ought to read novels.

A mate’s

Dad is aged ninety six in hospital. Aunt Sheila

lived alone for forty years and now

lies dying in a bed in a Care Home. His son

drove his car fast in pissing rain for the first

time yesterday. Floating along are tenements,

trees and a sense of fear. A little madness and

denial of logic and reason. This train journeys

on South, arriving, maybe, sometime.