Middle aged middle wide geezer waddling up the train,
sunglass perched on his number 2 bone, southeast accent,
flyin’ the flag for all the boys back home, film too loud
on his electric gizmo, tablet, lap top, i-curse thing, tiny gunshots
that make him chuckle to the knuckle, can’t be bothered to listen
on in-ears or phones, the sons of England’s seed.
The cubicles in the men’s room at Brussels station are pastel green,
smell clean. Entrance blocked by a tall blonde heavy mountain man,
older than his years, starting to stoop from an excess of life,
two fists for carrier bags at the end of each arm, full of clothes,
tangled pastel wash-outs, argues with the cleaner, smaller but leaner,
sharper, younger, head shaved, fresh, accommodating, generous at first
as the mountain rains on him, rants, points the last remaining finger
from his fist of bullets, raised but still clutching it’s bag of rags,
eye-to-eye, cleaner twisting broom, his animal gets louder.
I wait, eager to explore the fasciitis, coin in hand, stand close to
make it obvious, caught by the corner of the cleaner’s eye who steps
back, but the mountain advances, blocks my path, laugh, I’ve had it,
too tired, too held in for too long, too cautious, snap, step into
the path of the moving mountain, dropping,
“Pardon me” in French, forgetting it’s an offence round here,
as I slip the coin in the slot trying not to let my fingers contact
The cubicles at Brussels station, are pastel green, smelling sweet,
freshly cleaned, I lock the door behind & grin.