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<\/p>\n
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Train<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n You\u2019d have thought<\/p>\n that my journeying<\/p>\n <\/p>\n from Telford to London<\/p>\n would be enough time<\/p>\n <\/p>\n to read these poems<\/p>\n to darn a jumper<\/p>\n <\/p>\n to stare out the window; but<\/p>\n between the announcements<\/p>\n <\/p>\n the ticket inspection<\/p>\n the dark-light of tunnels<\/p>\n <\/p>\n the loud conversations<\/p>\n the fast-moving humans<\/p>\n <\/p>\n our slowing at stations;<\/p>\n all I have managed<\/p>\n <\/p>\n is a few short emails, and to watch a man with thick black moustache:<\/p>\n A luggage-rack reflection, he eases off a tinfoilcover, spoons,<\/p>\n <\/p>\n with love, the cherry yoghurt, to his lips,<\/p>\n avoiding drips on to suit,<\/p>\n <\/p>\n pale pink shirt and, instead of a tie, a thing<\/p>\n whose name escapes me but it hangs like a ribbon, holding his identity.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Once scraped clean, pot put away in Tupperware, tangerine untouched.<\/p>\n It strikes me, later, at a party, where a man is talking lanyards; that<\/p>\n <\/p>\n perhaps too, I was watched – with tilted head, and upturned eyes; and<\/p>\n how the train had wrapped us all, like segments in an unpeeled orange.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n