There is art in the subway:
The tiles make patterns that
Become meaningful under
Shading shadows left by
Broken lights, and the sky
Is reflected in the water that
Collects at the bottom of the ramp.

But after that it is back to
Grey tarmac and dull red bricks,
Traffic noise no longer
Tempered by being on the ground
As I walked beneath.

Are the gaps in the landscape
Gaps in my memory, or merely
The cracks that had appeared
In my post industrial hometown,
Bald patches that showed
Its age and poor health?

The most vivid picture, then,
Is her face: anger where
There should have been sympathy,
Disappointment in place of
Understanding, silence
Functioning as a question.

If she could see what was
Happening in my mind,
She did not tell me; she just
Left me to accrete guilt for
Being unable to play a game
With rules no one explained,
For getting myself out of
Harm’s way when there was
No one to do it for me.

If she knew what I was,
Why didn’t she tell me?

01/04/2025

Posted on 08/03/2025
Copyright © 2026 Richard Vince