Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

I am now living the life I invented for myself over a year ago, only for real. I order black coffee spiked with whisky and a bagel and I am using an old train ticket as a bookmark. Everybody in here knows everybody else apart from me; I don't know anyone.

   I tell myself I will go to the bookshop soon and tell the clerk how much I am enjoying this book I bought based on his recommendation. I want to share it with my girlfriend, but we split up three days ago. I mark one particular story anyway with the business card of an old friend, which I suppose shows I'm still holding out hope, although the story is about a break-up. I wonder what happened to that friend of mine - he had his own business and a wife and kid and I haven't seen him in so long. I was always jealous of what he had, and I was always glad when he approved of what I was up to.

   It's raining when I leave the bar, and the air smells strangely of garlic all the way to the train station. I forgot to drop in at the bookshop, but it's okay - he would probably think that was strange of me anyway. I slip by the station guards and get on the train. I'm only going one stop, so hopefully the ticket guard won't catch me. I get more and more nervous as the train junks along, and my palms get sweaty and I feel sick, so I put the book away, but the guard doesn't come and when I step off at the platform it's still raining and I feel ridiculous.

   I have come back to my dad's, for a drill and a soldering iron. He doesn't know I'm coming, and I don't even know if he has a drill, but he must do - he is a dad. I think I'm clinging to physical things at the moment - to using my hands - I've already fixed a belt and an ottoman that were broken, and now I'm trying to build something for my computer. Maybe I should build an umbrella.

   There are baby toys at the house, and it makes me think of innocence, and I stare at my shoes and think that when babies stare at their feet, they stare in wonder. I'm staring because I feel empty. I share a flat bottle of ale with my dad and have some lamb and mash and cake, and then I ask him about the drill and the soldering iron. He has got them, but his soldering iron is so cheaply made I think he must have gotten it free somewhere. I envision burns all over my hands attempting to use it. I take it anyway.

   On the train on the way home I pick up a new ticket. It's unavoidable - I'm the only person in the carriage and the inspector walks right over to me as I get on. The train takes forever to pull into the station, and all I can think is `I could definitely have finished that radio story'.

   It's still raining in the city and it still smells of garlic, and a woman asks me if I know where Panacea is. I tell her I don't, and she says it's her first night in the city. I tell her I'm starting to feel the same, and for some reason I hang around until they ask some workmen in a hole and then I move on.

   I start to compose a story in my head; a different story to this one. It's about spitting, and the rain and how sometimes it gets so thick and heavy on your brow you don't even try and wipe it off anymore, because it comes back too quickly, and I wish I was at home; the streets are filled with drunks and everyone looks like they're having a good time, or at least they don't care.

   The waitress lightly touches my shoulder and tells me that she has run out of avocado - I guess she is the cook as well - and would I like something else on my bagel instead? I tell her it's fine just skip the avocado but she insists so I tell her some red pepper might be nice and suddenly she seems very happy and disappears. My coffee has gone cold, so I have the barmaid warm it up and I look outside. It's raining heavily - a Spanish family bursts into the bar dripping wet - and as I stare at the rain I don't feel much like going anywhere.