What’s Your Name, Son?

by on October 9, 2014 :: 0 comments

Look at this poor young bastard
sitting opposite me on the train
snakes in his ears
fingers on his applemac
grey shirt grey tie grey hair
grovelling through his paperwork
sniffing on his glue stick
spooning down yoghourt
filling the carriage with strawberries
and cream

then he throws back his head
as though launching a snowball
plucks a book from where
his wallet ought to be
and suddenly he’s on the road
with the dharma bums
smiling as though he’s picked up
his first pay-check.

Snaring my eye like a bee trapped on a train
he smiles a ‘good-luck’ smile
like a hangman with a noose
around his neck as I pick up my bag
then I’m gone;

knowing they’ll never put another beer
on my tab and I’ll never come back
to pay it
I imagine him thinking
as I once did

‘One day I’ll walk away
with enough money in my pocket
to go dreamin’ like Kerouac;

and when I’m blue
I’ll remember that poor old bastard
with a pink slip in his hand
I saw sober up tonight on the train.’

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