Friday the 13th

Somewhere between
Clapham Junction and Balham
I suddenly grew old.

Middle aged man in shorts
opposite a cautious pretty blonde
both wearing the same shoes.

She was reading a book
which wouldn’t sink in a box of air
and picking at a nose ring.

I was writing a poem about my cat
with a fountain pen
and listening to Philip Glass.

Call me a dozen ambulances,
pick up my dozen pieces
bear me hence.

It is Friday the 13th.

Let us eat the insane root
and understand finally
what all these years must mean.