Todmorden station at 9.00 pm:
The waiting room is brightly lit
But its door is locked. There's no-one here
Save me and a lad asleep on a bench
(With his legs drawn up- so not like a corpse)
In the misty rain. I am ten dark miles
And more than an hour away from you
And if I were able to think of our number
(You know, love, what I'm like with numbers-
Useless) I would call you up
On the mobile phone. A goods train passes
Pulling its metal catafalques
And I think of that silly old play, the Ghost Train-
Arther Askey has silly specs
But is really a great detective tracking
A gang of smugglers. Actually, love,
That wasn't the truth about the phone.
I have the number. It's just that I hate
Those conversations in virtual space.
I need to see you. I need your touch.
How else can I know how you're taking things-
What you really mean? I prop myself
In an archway where I haven't a light
Behind me and I watch the sleeper
Turn, sit up and settle again.
He's quite well-dressed and I guess he's sleeping
Something off and not sleeping rough
But I wonder how he can sleep at all
Out there in the rain and so brightly lit.