In the quiet coach,

 a fellow sporting golden earplugs

with spaghetti down to a black snug

box the size of this packet

of playing cards in my jacket pocket,

- kings, queens, reds, blacks; faces and backs –

suddenly starts to sing ‘Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!’

in a screechingly smiley voice like a

backing singer – until I catch his eye

and grimace, turn to write a poem’s

smiling, silent speech – and hum.