(OK, I’m lying about that – it stinks
of cigarette smoke and stale urine,
but it lingers just the same).
Trains pass on the line and the fish-
eyed man stares at me through glass
and I can’t figure out if it’s me or him
who is living in the goldfish bowl.
The paint is peeling on the walls
that face the train line, and the city
tastes like sorrow. Nothing lasts.
I am counting minutes between trains
and counting months between lovers.
Trains pass on the line and it is quiet,
there are words but no-one listens.
The city tastes of loneliness and regret
and stale cigarette smoke that fills
this goldfish bowl and maybe I should
stop, and maybe I should listen.
Emily Smith, East Anglia, UK