collision

at the level of a scream —
at the level of a howl

sitting at a table in an underground station café –
sitting, surrounded by people –
sitting, listening to snatched conversations –

hearing little, understanding even less,
seeing, through the fog of sleep deprivation
(each image strangely clear),
and
feeling— feeling— feeling —
the vibrations
as the train rumbles overhead

and then —

the jolt of a child’s pram as it
knocks against your thigh
the touch of the mother’s hand on your shoulder
(so tactile, oh so human!)
the murmured mumble of an apology
the cooed coaxing to the errant offspring

something along the lines of let’s go dear
something along the lines of don’t bother the nice lady writing
something along the lines of don’t snatch her pen—stop that!—be polite!!
something along the lines of listen! if you’re still you can hear the train

at the level of a scream —
at the level of a howl

the whimper inside you that meets
the unmet desires of this child
who
muscling her way out of the pram and onto your lap and
grabbing your notebook and grabbing your pen and
sweeping aside your cup and
(there go £2.50 worth of aromatic pure-blended imported but don’t worry fair-trade carbon neutral and guaranteed to encourage serendipitous encounters brew-hah-hah
hah)
looking up into your face
and down at the mess on the floor —
waves your morning’s work energetically
smiles slyly and

lets
it
drop

at the level of a scream —
at the level of a howl

the sounds inside you move like overly-enthusiastic bowels

on the floor, you watch
the lined, ink-covered pages brown
and shape themselves wetly
over the broken china
(whose shattering has attracted notice from – would you believe it? – no one)
and the destructress, fait accompli, smiles wider, chuckles loudly, waves her arms proudly and
scrambles down

at the level of a scream —
at the level of a howl

your regret at seeing her go
sits, expecting little, awaiting even less—

surrounded by the
clang of crockery
and the subtle sound of
passing trains