Thoughts outside her office

an exodus of students

a pointless walk to the post depot

a seat in the corridor or

in the library I would occupy

while I was between

spaces with no shirt

the iron cold in the morning

 

no power from the sockets

 

but a steady glow from a

candle I’ve lit and left

to sputter, wick grown too

long and untrimmed.

A sail taking a prow down-

stream to mountainous

waves of tears;

my neck bent to the screen

and face washed in word-

patterned computer glare.

Christmas: mulled thoughts

and heartache,

a deadline and a ball

with flash photography

and unwrinkled smiles;

a show of white teeth.

Fewer than 24 hours

until the streets of London

are mine

and eyes are free to look

at me and wonder

and not already assume.