Anyone else would be counting the time, sighing
occasionally, shifting their weight from foot to foot.
You stand dead still, a pharaoh in profile,
frozen on a platform in the luck-down seaside town.
Seagulls swoop around you.
Your eyes do not move to follow them.
Your whole body is intent on watching
for that moment when the train comes
into view around the bend.
You never use the grand vocabulary
of warfare, impatient with the thought of battling
the disease. The language you use
is the language of the mechanic, tuning,
tinkering, keeping things running. I’m just off,
you say, for my servicing.
You will not look away from anything.
This is not a game.
You are good at this,
recognising happiness when it comes
along the track. You acknowledge it,
say it out loud. There it is.
