Moving in time

I heard a line on the radio,
and back I span , and I was
young again;the girl in the play
unwilling to be sucked
into the vortex and disappear.
It happens like that,
yesterdays popping up like mushrooms
on damp grass.
On the train today I sat,
sketching without views
on much at all, listening
to much of nothings, wondering
I was never like these girls
cool and lovely, opposite.

Cooling my brow i rest my forehead,
leaning on the shiny chrome handrail,
watching the world in its magnificent
diversity pass its way below,
I have made this journey hundreds
of times, seen thousands of
people in a snapshot of their
lives. Picked out murderers, mothers,
the homeless, Americans,
pondered over the possibilities
of new romances, lost appointments,
contracts I should care about
but don't.

In the new smart St Pancras station,
I felt the same as I felt
twenty years ago, the world alien .
But now, composed, I move among
the crowd, knowing my story
a little more than then.
Knowing all stories are imperfect,
and not without their pain.
.