I take round trips on the Tube
during morning rush hour. I stand up,
for maximum contact—for the warmth
and pressure of other bodies—
and inhale the steam
of coffee-and-cigarette-breaths.
I offer to walk my busy neighbor’s kids
to school. Their brittle voices ring
in the icy air, as if belonging
to another universe.
I try to strike up conversations
at the market where I buy
a single item daily, a bun
or tart. I stick to apolitical
topics: the BMW’s windscreen smashed
by a flying cabbage, Saddam Hussein’s
romantic novel.
Then I am home alone again.
I put on the kettle for a cuppa.
But the quiet is not lovely.
Nor the enclosure
of my own body. Everything’s
supposed to be relative—
unless one’s loneliness
is absolute.