I flip the page on another half-digested poem
And wish I could join the drunks further down the carriage
Or sleep, twisted and contorted, face pressed against the
glass
And make time fly as the blurry world goes past
I do not know if it is yours
In an age of typing I do not recognise your handwriting
A text would explain away the mystery
Take the myth and turn it into history
Sprawling, cramped and crawling sideways up the page
Notes with torn off paper to mark their place
My heavy eyes open and the poem is forgotten
I watch your words race each other
To the bottom
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