At Oxford Circus
A wet work evening after a long day at the office –
three hours on the phone to the libel lawyer,
one hour’s chilled fear in the press office,
six hard hours-on-end escaping into editing:
a mess against a deadline. Beyond that,
the chalked outline of this morning’s therapy,
the hole in the night before, the begging-ghost me.
And now, at least, the relief of nightfall,
streetlights, rain-bright pavements, the stream
of office workers blending with the stream of shoppers
pouring off Oxford Street and down those steps
into the tube. Everyone rushing towards
other people, places. When all of a sudden – weeks
since we sensibly parted – ahead of me, out of
all those moving figures and faces, the petals, umbrellas,
one solitary person pauses,
stops still against the crowd. Looms, gaping,
grinning. As I now mirror. OH! At last. It’s you.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Charlotte
Gann would be
pleased to hear them.