He had problems

John's face, flush and moisturised
against the train seat, is dreaming.

He remembers mishaps;
gas fires and blue faced children,
how a student once wrote
'his eyes are two flies on the back of a typewriter.'

On his lids he charts genetic trees,
Norway caught at the corner of his mouth like mayonnaise,
Queen Maud and King Haaken
in colsalw cold wars.

The weight of his thesis
supine in his lap,
makes him aware even in sleep
of the irony in pedagogy spelt wrong.

The announcer
shrunk to the size of an insect,
skittles to escorts him
to the bronchial tube trap.

He fishes pumpkin seeds out his pocket,
there to remind him to feed the parrot,
side slams them open
on brown back molars.

He bins the piece of paper directing 'Strand'
and snatches at the stop,
eyes admiring the chocolate machine, the post box
all the energy waiting on white lines.

On the escalator, he forgets about fjords
and hooks in his memory with warm wet hands,
while his thesis
slips back to Cambridge wanting more work.