Two snores and a sigh: job done.
Breathe,
listen as the last drunks amble past
singing Angels
pretty well. After one thousand years
it’s time.
Get up, grab his dressing-gown
and walk down the hill
to the station,
to its middle-aged platforms
and its forgotten promise
and its gap-toothed tracks.
If you begin right now,
if you keep walking,
you’ll nearly be at Guildford
when the first morning train
cuts you down.
Go back, put the key on the table,
creak the stairs,
squeeze into bed.
In the morning, answer quickly:
‘Yeah, like a log.’