I’m four pints deep at The Signal Box
since no trains are leaving Euston now.
At the bar there’s a guy who talks and talks.
The departure boards are blank as snow.
Silent as someone who, three hours ago,
stood at the tracks’ edge. Turning and turning
a stone in one hand. Someone who knew
one thing, and one thing only. Burning
in their chest for weeks. As bundled kindling
takes, slowly at first, then spreads, a lie
with the fierce colours of truth. Nothing
now but the wires’ hum, a cold winter sky.
I’m five pints deep at The Signal Box.
At the bar there’s a guy who talks and talks.
