39. IT WASN'T BUT FOR SEEMING

IT WASN'T BUT FOR SEEMING

It wasn't but for seeming that I was alone;

it was also for other things - like no one to

talk back to, or no one to ask for clues. It appeared

as if everything was empty and silent around me.

The tormented guy with the tophat, standing on

the train platform waiting - stretching his neck

like an idiot to see if the train was coming.

Down the track, up the track, what could it matter?

He missed the last one, and he'd miss this one too,

for sure - unless of course I pushed him in front

of it. Faint possibility, vague, meandering thought.

The rustle of some frank newspaper caught me short:

winsome notes on some stupid sports story, or a new

look in some Dictator's eye, piecemeal enticements

by political hacks, a fashion shoot shot in the nude.

It was all the same : no shame, no game.

I took a pencil from a box on the shelf where they

keep the timetables and ticket stubs. No one noticed.

With it I began writing on the wall - in text too small to see -

'I am not this person who was just now here;

I am not this man you see.' It did take quite a

long time, but I eventually covered the wall.