The way you ran into the last rush-hour of the morning,
like a character in one of Sempé’s city sketches,
with your coat collapsing and the wind
not helping, water-coloured by the racing cars and rain,
which wasn’t even falling enough
to cause such a storm. There’s a picture, or a place,
where everyone’s thrown in their city’s steps and hours,
walking or smoking into each other,
holding their phones, T’es où? Allô, t’es où?
On the corner of
Baker Street and Marylebone, I think I was
the only one not moving, holding onto my mobile, to all my
where-are-you texts and messages, so I’d look busy
and not lost.
First published in Poetry Wales issue 49.3, Winter 13-14.
Shortlisted for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award, 2014.