Sunday, 24 September 2017

Misty


Sometimes the people let the train doors slam,
Just because they can.
I’m standing there and everyone’s just fucking gawping.
I’m the one left holding Misty’s collar.
Noses pressed against breath misted glass.
A hundred faces.
The cover of We Are The Pigs.
My mousey hair coving red ears over blue anorak slouched.
Now they all know.
A square of dead empty, sits on platform 3.
A grey void, behind gritty yellow stripe.
Gone.
They won’t leave me alone now.
It’s frozen.
A barren abstract photograph,
That however many pieces in which I tear,
Self-repairs.
I just wish Josie’s dad was here.
Drips off my nose.
They all did see.
They all now knows.

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