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.
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.