A black tea stewed too long
on Newcastle Central Station platform
waiting for the last train to London.
Cold night breath rises and falls in waves:
a relief like symmetry in the station arches
as a lone man reads the newspaper
over spectacles balanced on the edge of his nose.
An analogue clocks clicks hard-edged sounds,
our shared seconds until departure. The absolute
dominates this space between him and I.
I am extra in the movie of his life, a biopic of one
of the greats, and I play “man on platform”.
I count grey floor tiles to make up seconds
until the final scene when the fat full moon
will reflect from the gentleman’s lenses
and he will glance at me before checking his watch
and I will be validated.