Station

You sprint down

the platform at Piccadilly.

The first time I see you run.

Boyish.  Easy.

Sun pales gray

through the train shed roof,

as if we are lit for a morning set.

I wait for someone to shout "Cut!"

The doors close.

We're late.  The attendant frowns. 

Next train leaves at 11:11.

I don't mind.  It's lucky.

The carriage is warm.  It sways.

You explain why bricks change to stone

in the crosshatch of hedgerows

and sundry farms.

I find a station in your arms.

Stillness in your eyes.

Think how indecently happy,
should I suddenly die.

tk/April 2015

Lovely read by R.A.D. ...like the gentle sway of a train carriage...

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Remittance Man

This morning I dream you wear your hat;

the well-loved trilby that accompanied you

to the King George, where three-year olds meet

older horses.

You stand quietly, hands across your chest.

I imagine you posed like that,

calmly watching the 3:10; cigarette dangling

from your whiskers.

I step from behind, hand on your shoulder,

remove the hat, place it cocked over my eye.

All its privileges and undeniable luck released

upon my head. 

tk/February 2014


Excellent read by R.A.D. Stainforth...in the sun-she-ine... 

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