On the Move

I left with a lawnmower,
towed it on the tube;
many looked, stared hard
to check my rationality
as if leaking in puddles
down platform gaps…

I wanted to slide too,
dissipate in greasy lines:
sheltering under a cocooning city,
(lining its underbelly)
with my fabric self.

Yet I’m forced to stand
holding the 90s relic mower:
a semblance of a marriage
alongside a cargo rucksack
comprising my whole life
beneath camouflage flecks
of jangled jungle life,
discordant in metropolis climes.

Next to me is a packed box –
the conclusion of a desk job,
ill-fitting, tightly screwed edges
wore too close to my skin
so I’ve packed everything,
and now, I’m making a run for it…

On the Move

Perhaps I’m mad:
maybe their slanted heads
make perfect sense;
eyeing me as skewed,
tilted as Pisa’s tower –
too unconventional to fit
so I slant, obscure,
clasping plastic handles
as a runway to God,
steadying unknown journeys
on rails of solid steel.