Bogatell, 22.00

We ran for the train, thinking we were late

Jumping the barriers, then panting on the spot

Like cartoon coyotes in a concrete canyon

Sweating the warm fug of summer in the city

Hearing the electric chug of an escalator in slow motion

Fingering the dust, tobacco and vegetable oil.

 

You failed to notice as I sat down

Cooled down, and took a photograph

Of you, standing alone on the platform edge

Adjusting the braces I had gifted you

Their twin tracks of denim

Sight-lines for your navel-gaze.

 

You said your name meant wandering minstrel

And pleaded for my good grace

But I got on the next train,

Direccio Trinitat Nova

Singing twelve bars of waiting at Bogatell in G,

With ticket stubs and film, my souvenirs in blue.

 

After time, finding that faded image torn in two,

Can a double negative really make a positive,

Or will it always be 22.00?

 

 

 

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