Earl's Court. A man enters our carriage
Playing Flower of Scotland
On a traffic cone.
He says he's homeless. He may well be
Drunk. I ignore him with my mobile phone.
A flawed device as we are underground.
And now the girl I've fancied since, oh, South Ealing
Catches my eye as she gets off
With someone else.
Green Park. I look down on myself.
Nothing transcendental, you understand.
Just chins above a growing girth.
In the black curve of the window,
There's no escaping it: I am diminishing.
Almost before my eyes,
What I could have been rolls back
To just beyond the reach of where I was -
A subterranean landscape slowly crossed.
Angel. The front door slams;
I hear your thoughts chicane.
The dropped bags thump the wind out of the hall.
We're both returned
To here and now again,
London's autumn after Boston's fall.
Three weeks without a ring.
I can explain while you pretend
You waited on my call.
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