Poetry

You push the bag under your seat,
sidle back, make space for more,
'This is the Piccadilly line service
to Heathrow terminal 4, ' you see
attics pass by and vacant lots of
the city you are leaving make their
graffiti as if to say - a year later,
it is only yesterday, a year later,
it is only yesterday. And you think,
if you were given one more question
for her, you would ask, how long does
this year of separation last, how long
does it take for a shadow to fall
between what we love an' what we
fear; you are near, the tube halts, you
take a long step out so as not to miss
the ground beneath your feet, how bad
a joke departure is, to leave everyone
you meet. You board your plane, take
your seat again, an' by way of love, the
city tilts when you see it last, it begins to
melt as the plane turns around, you sigh,
for love, a bit like the seat-belt you tie,
guards you but always holds you down.