The rain delays
my walk to the train station.

I have another half,
bobbing between
rapids in the gutters
and their conversation
about Revelations.

Monty Panesar bowls
against the back wall
before I notice my knees,
on the brass bar-front,
pounding wet-day signals

to my ankles. Later
at the Railway Café
you confess to me,
over a metallic cup of tea,
that you still see our dead Father

out of the corner
of your damaged eye.
I wish I could hallucinate
the smell of embrocation
and sour leather pads

when he dumped his bag
in the hall after a match.
Your pie and gravy reek
to the back of my throat
in unwelcome consolation.