He is stuck.
The slow journey home.
Frost on the line
or something.
Doesn’t question it.
It’s not anything
anyone has power over.
When he was young
he’d see tired underwear morose,
clinging on to plastic vines
in tramp hair grass backyards and
ask mother who lived there.
Whose knickers were famous
every cheap-day?
He faces the silhouette
at one of the windows.
Her mouth “o”s as she
sucks on the wooden handle
of a brush,
the oil mounts on the canvas
like grease on skin,
then flakes like dandruff.
It is someone
who is aired to the world.
Her expression is that
of the train with its
one perfectly circular
central headlamp
day dreaming its way
along the familiar track,
forgetting what it was made as and
just doing.
The room is cold.
Frost on the window-pane
or something.
She doesn’t question it.
She looks outside on to the
stuck train on the track.
The passenger still looks through her.
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