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.