breathless
graffiti shouts insults from walls by the chemist
its colours explode like flung bottles
I stare at the pavement and I’m late for the 8:22
to Manchester because I should have left home at 7:55
but I had to fix the tap or attempt to and now
if I run I could pratfall like last time and hurt
my coccyx and rip my trousers and Annie from sales
will cluck over me at lunch and her breath smells
of liquorice and I just want to sit quietly at my desk
and not bother with chit-chat and it’s now 8:17
and there’s no time to order coffee
from the man who grunts or grab a gloompaper
for company on the journey and I need something
to occupy my mind because if I don’t it ticks
like a wind-up alarm clock and prick-prick-pricks
the inside of my skull
and the train’s pulling in now and I’m queuing politely
when some idiot pushes past and I smile
and I’m getting on and I’m looking round
for an empty seat like that exists at rush hour
and I’m squashed against a woman with a pushchair
and my head weighs watermelon fat
and who brings a child on a crowded train at this time of day
and I pretend not to notice her or the kid
but I see the strap of my bag is caught
in the wheels of the buggy and my inner-Tannoy says
they’re getting off at the next stop
they’re getting off at the next stop
and I brace myself to leave with them to avoid a scene
then jump back onto the next carriage along
so no one will spot me re-embarking
as they may determine I’m acting suspiciously
and use mobile devices to alert the authorities
and guards at Stockport might actually
escort me off the train in front of all these people
and what will Annie think
Ian Humphreys is studying for a Creative Writing MA at MMU. His work has appeared in magazines including Ambit, Butcher’s Dog, Poetry News and Prole. He is currently putting together his first pamphlet.
Note: first published in London Grip, Autumn 2015.