You and I
and platform one, all still.
We sit where no-one is,
fresh black seats, overdressed,
in turpentine cologne.
Then sudden life, a train churns up the rails,
exhaling whiffs of steam.
Its dying pace concludes in flinging doors.
Huge amounts of people glide past,
hundreds, slowly, legs not walking,
horizontal escalator dummies,
stream like fish for spawning.
Then we are again alone,
that empty carriage space, and us.
I turn to you and ask if we are getting on?
But you aren’t there,
and looking down,
nor am I.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem