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?