Somewhere now, we lean towards each other

in the middle of the station, laughing our eyebrows

towards dramatic inclines. Can’t believe I get to see you

again, she says, years after we were herded

into Mrs Drysdale’s classroom, curiosity fluttering

fast against our seven-year-old frames. Nobody

recoiled at her pinafore stains or made fun of her sleeping

at her desk, beak-like cheeks buried in her arms.

There was no need for us to understand

the extent of her exhaustion. None of us needed

to work as children. We grew up and found work

we tolerated in exchange for things that made us happy.

Nobody came to know any men who demanded money.

Nobody needed to get into any fights about money. Nobody

was murdered for money, thrown five storeys over a carpark parapet

and left alone for days, while their things got scattered

in bins and drains. Nobody suffered that kind of pain.

When I saw her at the station that rush hour morning, something

had changed. I didn’t pretend not to see her, and I didn’t walk away.

Somewhere sometime she’s hugging

me a rushed goodbye, and this poem is an empty page.