Oh, Hara...Mature

My journey home.


I  spend half my life

on a bus and the other half

waiting for the 72 to trundle

up Barnes Bridge’s rusty knuckle

and deliver me to Hammersmith

with 17 minutes of rattling gratitude

I don’t have to trudge across the Commondale

or tiptoe past Red Lion - onwards off the bus

onto the Circle Line for 34

raw static minutes I glare

at a terrific advert and smirk

and sob because I don’t need half price

hair tonic but I’ve read it

20 times a minute 

more and I might die because it’s



I’ve ripped my hair out so

I boldly steam across Liv. Street past

crane-necked commuters

adults on scooters

newspaper looters

and behind those that are criminally      unforgivably            slow

I shave my way onto the train

for Clacton - sunshine state of Essex

perched upon a Rorschach test

beside a boozy businessman who

passes out wakes up pukes up

his dinner pints and dentures

which he catches wipes replaces, I

flit right across the carriage

and withdraw out of the window

because London’s slipped away

we slither quick through stations grey

until we reach Thorpe where I sigh -

so close, a burnt out fire station husk

is propped against pink sky

three Floyd tracks later I arrive

“Clacton in Bloom!” a hanging casket

four songs more I’m at the drive

of number six I free the key

with 1930 and intrude

into my parent’s home and there

a cat, a comma on the carpet, that

is Heaven.

The End

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