David Winwood
Grip
I don’t know why she looks so
German, this woman in the tube,
her lank hair tied in
an elastic grip. On the opposite
platform a man in sunglasses,
his flesh so loose it
seems ready to fall off. He keeps
staring after the receding train.
Teeth bared, the hungry
hounds of his thoughts running on
an unseen track, he could be his
own stuffed hare.
Was she German? Her eyes had
the colour of dead fish. You could
stare like that. Above ground
a pedestrian is carrying a white-
washed wooden cross along. Casually,
in utter denial
of the holes in the road.
My flesh is so hot, it feels ready
to fall off Yet I can’t
put a name to my longing anymore.
Page(s) 27
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