It only feels like death

She looks in her compact
looking very compact
tacked in the corner of
the train,

He looks like he looks like
not much to say about him.

from her magic bag of tricks
she plucks out
her eyebrows

I have a pen with which I write
of reflections I see and if I feel
that it’s right I write some more.

This day not that day is Tuesday
Henry is deaf to the sound.

Going around
I try to circle a square
she’s still tacked there
in the corner.

Chancery lane
the drunkard gets on
singing a song
about Ireland
I guess that he’s Irish
I wish he was sober
it’s not even six of the clock.

Lady with make up
takes up where he left off
sings songs to see me through
the day
which is this day
not that day

© 2018, John Smallshaw.