He is on the Northern Line
between Edgware and Euston.
Just him and me, in the carriage.
His stare irradiates me.
Guilty.
I wasn't there for Liam.
Now there was a fan of yours.
He took all that trouble
to make me lunch, and I stood him up.
I'm sorry.
He doesn't pass sentence.
He gets off at Chalk Farm
with the faintest smile
in his obsidian eyes:
'You still need a ticket'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem