Melancholy in the bath at four a.m.
mother’s up, worried, rosary in hand wishing I’d stay near her.
Bell rings, Bob’s here, I’m gone, into dark morning,
street lamps softly burning.
Missed the signs,
wrong stairs, wrong queue –
parting with cash for perfect fit,
chatting for no reason, shedding layers,
asleep on bench, on bags, waiting, watching planes in the sun
through glass, air-conditioned cage, chatting for no reason, killing time.
Talk of Serengeti, Kilimanjaro speaks,
calling a fifty, booted, sweatered, rucksacked group.
Not me.
I’m moving out of vision, alone
– invisible, again.