< Previous | Contents | Next >
A dull day
underneath the underneath of my motorway I walk my path to New Birmingham
Fishing for bits of tat for this and that to keep safe in my pocket till later I can sit and look at it.
Above me spin spaghetti threads toward someplace else Empty and quiet like here and there and
everywhere I know That has nobody in it.
I look at my watch – 1 – time for getting on quick
I slip alongside the cutting, the rails, the canal, the curved asphalt meanders and trails toward the station where my trains sleep in ward rows, doors gaping open like birthday cards.
I perch on my spotting spot and look at the stopped clock – 1:23 and some seconds fast. Enough time just once upon
To get a quick coffee from the buffet and read the timetable fast.
And look at my bits of tat and tit, a ball a bag and some string. A fine hoard for a dull day with no one about I can
Lay it all out, 1, 2, 3, I can sing out loud like a 125 ‘Clickety clack,
down on the track, 1, 2, 3,
Tat and that.’
I drop the string and the ball and the bag and climb down to sit on sleepers and count my things.
February 4, 2015