Lithely he bobbed between us.
A face of late summer,
Eyes as hopeful as a bud,
With a trilby that marked him,
with a dapper air.
Overhead, the sky moved opaquely,
Like a mop squeezed into fresh water.
And the wind as demanding as a toddler,
Prodding incessantly at my neck and fingers.
He stroked the dog
And both took comfort from the warmth of the connection.

I glanced at my phone.

Twelve more minutes.

He muttered to me of broken noses,
an urgent warning, should I suddenly,
wish, to step into the ring.
His thoughts slurred through his mouth,
spurred on by his desire for contact,
but held back, dragging themselves,
through damaged pathways, trodden well by
the flavours of raves, of tabs and
powders and wide-eyed youth.
Distracted by the arrival of fresh ears,
ears unbent by pugilism, ears
soft with cartilage not yet hardened.
They must be warned. Warned of the dangers,
of tobacco, and how it barricades your
mouth from sweet and sour, your nose from
the scent of your lover and rancid beer.
No remittance required, save time and smiles.
Our pockets held their weight.
Into the light we stepped in line.
Behind us he took his seat.
And on he droned, like human static.
A life of white noise,
Lived vicariously through the 102 to East Linton.

© Sarah Hunter