Bench seat

I see myself as a man of

empathy but I can’t know

your terror in the thick black

of night in cold corners with

nowhere to be and being no one.


Sitting in a station with the

dull light of flickering signs

at midnight and huddled under

a bench seat as a makeshift

bed that feels something like

your own place to be.


That is the best I can do to

sense you as a being who is

mashed into this matchless world

and living below the means of

your imagination that still flows

with the ancient doom of the clock.


And at the first smell of coffee

you awake, invisible to the tribe

of travellers whose footfall lies

close to your head, as the light

strikes and you withdraw to the

street on this unending quest

that brings you back to your seat.