HAMMERSMITH
The boys who ran headlong for Number 9s
Would sometimes stumble, fall into the arms
Of unimpressed conductors, spouting lines
About their well-used passenger alarms.
We burst out from the back steps with our bags
Slung over sideways, and we cursed like gents
And watched in awe as older boys smoked fags
And muttered knowingly at our expense.
Some boys would walk, then wait for 33s,
And who’d allow those landlocked nerds t’save face? –
They never knew the thrill of trying to seize
Hold while the 9 to Mortlake gathered pace.
I don’t know what became of it, and us.
We ran and jumped for fun, no fear, no fuss.
LA CHAUX
The former servant’s quarters at La Chaux
were patterned like a blood rush to the head.
I picture myself smoking but I know
I wasn’t smoking out my servant’s bed
as lazy drunken midnight recaps tapped
my melancholy down. It was the last
summer alone. I was a wholly apt
disgrace of indolent reclining class.
I carried what was coming fast - next month
Of course, as it turned out. I knew it well
Enough, and though I danced with priests and lunched
All day, I was just waiting for the bell,
Which, when it rang, I gladly did attend.
That seamless freedman’s life came to its end.
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