I’m sorry

It’s hard to look back. I now realise near midnight recollecting the face you never showed me it to engrossed in Instagrams glare. I’m bleary, deciding to Mobb Deep, not podcast as an familiar unknown middle age white lady stares me down. I must be occupying her place. She’s unaware of my staff badge, my shirt and tie hidden by my threatening winter coat.

You two couldn’t be farther apart, together on the crampt carriage East. Your trousers yawn a permanent gape, exposing what I hope are sports shorts. You hair has a crispy sheen, unevenly wetted locks and relaxed tufts taming what was never wild.

But your neighbour’s a combed coiffed quiff, an Essex swirl, the kinda pompous pompadour you see in cafe’s, fairly highly priced for a coffee ceded in an unfair trade. He’s out the window, with eyes following all absent from us; must be nice; while my nearing obnoxious eye never see yours, still fixed in your iPhone glow. To him we’ve all melted away, as if his dream pursues the tram. On mass we unperturbed by the black buzz cut grandma no one offered a seat.

I’m drawn back to you with a fond aversion. I lament the shirt that’s a bit yellow from Thursday’s turn, pristine Nike hoody, Blazer latticed with scratches and from stints as a goal post, black Air Force school shoes matching the hood and skin. Sir Attenborough taught me when you’re bottom you’re barely surviving.

My eye lingers on, saving data, living outside. You grin, your head lifted and drifting to the side. You touch his arm and he looks at your iPhone, you both look, laugh, look again, laugh again. He looks back out the window and you back to your glow. I’m sorry.

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1st Thing 

I suppose the division lies with Black etc.  not being seen to have a culture of them own. 

But instead viewed as unruly, their misbehaviour na’ following the hosts wishes. 

Right… 

With rise and fall of right and all

Moving on again to its peak from finish 

I wonder if your love for me will diminish

As in the past some of us were strung 

upon the most local yew

and I fear I will be forever a hue askew 

an other, 

diverse 

from the rest of you. 

The Coloured We

We’re the Tagine

ignored on the island

of a White Company decked kitchen.
Bought intending on extracting its exotic essence,

                              left out as decoration,
to exude vibrant metropolitan inclusion.

Half / Cast

Half-hearted, I half-listen,
to your half-stories,
feeling half-dead,
for the whole time you’re here.

At half-one, you half-know,
I half-care, what you say,
it’s halflife, too long life,
for me to wish to stay.

This day half-cast, brings half light,
sat half lotus, thinking half-baked,
about half-truths, I half-know,
that I still repeat to myself today

Will I be half-arsed, or half-keen
today’s halftime ‘s, but daydreams
as whole-hearted, I half pray
since I’m half man, half the day…