Train to Devon

In the smoke-filled carriage, an American raps
about money, life, his chest expanding his T-shirt motto,
Dance your ass off, baby!
Facing him, the Colonel
is liberal, certain. On race trouble:
"Not used to trusting the police, you see…'
Lucky in trouble himself, he recalls the Sinai Desert, '55 —
stranded, but found a Pakistani who could fix his car.
"Did a terrific job,' he booms, then, "How about that!'
and goes on with talk of "shows' and "escarpments'
and "Of course, you people…'
His eyes pinpointed
with light, the Pakistani drops the photo of a girl
between us, playing it like a card. She glows up,
dark and solemn, from the table. "Your fiancée … your wife?'
— I do not ask. Resigned, he folds his wallet round it,
resumes watching me. "Where are you headed for?' I risk.
Exeter. I see him following me down the platform…
Displaced from himself, filling the space around him
like a well-tailored porpoise, he leans forward again,
unhappily intent.
How odd loneliness makes us,
how pleasant to assume one understands, is understood.
Having failed, even as strangers, we part at Exeter.
"See you,' I say, unthinking, in farewell.