An Ordinary Encounter, Front On.

I stutter at the woman

behind the glass

of the train station ticket booth.

Caught off guard, like so often before,

by an innocent question

awkwardly received.

It is a shame that most correspondence

occurs forward-facing like that,

not springing forth

from a deeper level with more truth to it.

My expressions often do not co-operate

with my inner workings;

sometimes they react

to crude jokes or the latest news,

but little else.

So what I'm left presenting

is a blank wall with potential,

the side of a building

that faces out into the street.

I wake up each morning,

graffiti my intentions on the exposed bricks

and start the day decorated,

but dishonest.

S.M