Michael O'Neill, from Wheel
Daypex
1
Your Daypex ticket has imprisoned you
in this cathedral city all day long.
Those literary folk have stood you up;
no go-betweens in the L. P. Hartley Room.
Still, now you've trodden the aisle
where Katharine of Aragon rests.
She paid the price for being 'simplex'.
You kill time in a bar, then watch
the merry-go-round in Cathedral Square,
horse after horse melting into a whirled
hoop of light. Vendors of Santa hats
brave the hours you count down, until
you fetch up on the platform as a train,
the one before your chariot of release,
awaits its coffee-seeking driver and
you gaze at a girl's tensed profile
before the driver climbs aboard, the whistle summons,
and the stage of the train departs,
conveying such lit scenery
as clarifies the bleakness of the night.
2
This in your head, and then the email
telling you the organiser
was absent, and the event cancelled,
because (but the letters began to jumble),
because of a suicide (but all you'd done
was kill time) the previous day.
The ticket lingered on
in the ward of your wallet for months;
it rebuked you somehow, pricking your skin
when your fingers revolved its edges
and it turned itself, once more, into lines.
Michael O'Neill