you with your can of pils, nine in the morning, riding the train. Pudgy, beaten, rounded face. You with the laptop and the shirt that hugs every curve, you wittering and grouching, you with the sad, tailspin eyes. Do you see me? Do you hear me thinking. Am I coming through? And when it’s my turn to pack up and leave, why do I find myself stuck out here alone on the utility-grey fake cobbles, these zincland pylon vistas? Journey-ruffled and dislocated, my bike takes me home.
