End of the Line
(“It was never about the money”)
 
It wasn’t until the dispute
had been resolved
that they found him.
Sat in his customary corner seat
of the third carriage,
his eyes closed in perpetual sleep
and stubble on his chin,
with last year’s crossword
half completed on his lap.
He’d been sat in the sidings
since the strike had begun
and all through the months
of negotiation
no one from the rail company
or the union
had noticed he was there.
Once, the guard would have found him,
but it’s driver only now.


Door de L’amour
 
Love is that plate glass door
that you didn’t see coming
until it hit you in the face.
You didn’t realise it was there
because all you’d known till then
had been the revolving doors
of one-night stands of
in, spin, and out again.
Or older relationships
left slightly ajar
because no one had
closed them properly.
The semi confinement
of the half stable door
and the evasiveness
of the sliding pair
didn’t prepare you for this,
the bloody nose
and broken heart
of that plate glass
slammed in your face