A dull day
underneath the underneath of my motorway
I walk my path to New Birmingham
Fishing for bits of tat for this and that to keep safe in my pocket
till later I can sit and look at it.
Above me spin spaghetti threads toward some place else
Empty and quiet like here and there and
everywhere I know
That has nobody in it.
I look at my watch – 1 – time for getting on quick
I slip alongside the cutting, the rails, the canal,
the curved asphalt meanders and trails toward
the station where my trains sleep in ward
rows, doors gaping open like birthday cards
I perch on my spotting spot and look at the
stopped clock 1:23 and some seconds fast.
Enough time just once upon
To get a quick coffee from the buffet
and read the timetable fast.
And look at my bits of tat and tit, a ball a bag and some string.
A fine hoard for a dull day with no one about I can
Lay it all out 1, 2, 3 I can sing out loud like a 125
down on the track,
1, 2, 3
Tat and that.’
I drop the string and the ball and the bag and climb down
to sit on sleepers and count my things.