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The gent next door falls asleep;
must be creamed – this carriage
has about a thousand people
per square inch. His head
flops on my shoulder,
then he sort of snuggles in
and I feel a thrill, sure as that shock
I got from Christmas lights one time.

It doesn’t last long – we hit a bump
and he jolts awake, sits up so straight
I almost think he’s had a seizure;
he’s too humiliated,
I guess, to apologise.
I want to tell him it’s OK, to grab a kip
if he fancies, but of course I can’t –
can’t say a goddamned thing.

So we’re stiff as our seats and silent
for the next nine stops – he
with these bleary eyes, blinking sleep
into submission or something; me –
the old heart still going
like a yellow-bellied rabbit’s,
my guts a sudden grease trap;
I’m sort of crying too.