On the train home. After seeing some
old faces with new love. I see in the
window. The reflection of the man sat
Clad in an old rocker t-shirt with
matching leather waistcoat and knee
high pirate boots.
Arms drawn in front of him lying limp.
Until a tune grabs them and hurls them
into action. Waving and swirling along
to admirable lip syncing.
All those in the carriage can hear old
school rockabilly thudding out of his
dated earphones. None complain.
Especially me. It's helping my hours dwindle
floating around his lung cancer odour.
A can of stella now safely clasped in one hand.
He mimes "What's going on". A passionate
tribute to his dusty i-pod spread on the table.
I sit back enjoying this mad man's
company. His Bravery.
Yes. The phone he checks regularly and ignores
the calls of. And the steady skipping at the shock
of an unfamiliar track. May suggest these articles
may in fact belong to someone else. A more
respectable mirror of his happy self.
But no. I think he's the real deal. The
head banging denim and leather wearing
So now I sit here. Jealous as hell.
Look at him. Having a ball.
My little drunk pirate rockabilly.