Train of thought


His weather-worn, mahogany,
Poverty-pocked face,
Slumped on his chest in
apparent slumber.
I note the bag
under his seat.
Return to my book.

We halt,
spill passengers
Onto Dewsbury’s platform.
The near-empty train
pulls away.
I don’t see him wake,
But notice him rise from his seat, glance up and down the carriage
Then head off.

I go back to my reading,
Something about a bag,
A heavy bag,
Under a seat.

I tell myself
It’s just a bag, an
Innocuous, long-life
shopping bag,
designed to save the environment.

On a train.
My train.

I re-start the chapter.
Ignore the bag
The bulging bag.
Beneath a seat
Two metres from me.
Left by a man
Who happens to be Asian

I restart my chapter.
Realise there is no buffet car.
Chastise myself:
he’s just gone to the loo.
Re-start the paragraph.
I am calm
The sort of calm
That rises involuntarily from the chest
Tightening the throat.
It’s a long time to be in the loo.
I wonder,
Should I tell someone?
Or throw his bag off the train.
Become a hero,
The George Cross, that’s what they get isn’t it?
Poet rescues…
“Excuse me”
I didn’t hear him arrive.
I’m leaning so far across the carriage
Trying to see into his bag
That he can’t get past.
Sorry.

Turns out he lives
Just round the corner
From where I was born.

I mean, we’re practically related.

JSJ 2009