Where's the railway station, mate?

It's just around the corner wrapped

in the  escarpment's arms

like a winning hand of poker.
We trudge together, stick & pack/

intersection at the end of his rage, my wander.
He's 42, the second great love

27 & out today with another guy.

Ex-wife plus kids

job & age.

Sediment          On the train

we're smothering miles,

discuss the whispered edge of being men.
The guy's intense, but gentle –

teased to the edge of atrocity.

I am convincing. He edges back

from the sovereignty of fists.
His career is a toxin, infecting each minute

with its hunger, chafe & worship.
Perhaps she's saying

“Give me space”.

Maybe her telling you beforehand was important.

(just as likely

you've stuffed it, more calluses to dress

a once open flesh….

                      but why say that on a sun-salved day?).
I peel some dead skin from a cuticle

put it on my tongue. No other communion required

as the woman in levis across the aisle

repeatedly thwacks her ticket against a thigh.
At Sutherland we shake hands –

I offer luck, some peace.

Count 10 before you step inside, mate.
His smile is built, its polish hard work.

But the weather is waiting

& it whispers rust.