That artist
Who had porridge, a pot of tea, and cigarettes
For breakfast
On his way to purposeful acid etchings
He walked beside you
You walked beside him
Such a pity it was virtual reality
Even on the Outliers
That cab driver
Driving through pouring rain
To reach
The museum with a radiator
She walked beside you
You walked beside her
Tied up in the domesticity
Of getting to somewhere
How many artefacts
You say too many to count
Yet too few
To grant you solace
Don’t go there do I hear you say
To the field, or stream
Or bluebell woods
Where time will have taken its toll
The book is on order
Wait patiently for now
And remember
The rush is always inconclusive
