Box of light.

Night rattles the tiles, the street glass roils, reflects

traffics of cars, faces. Moon, too, yes. But, no star

arcs in raindrops; shoeshine puddles even the paving.


Trainbent, late, and suddenly lost. Of the first to cross

the mouth of the concourse, I ask direction, but

with apology he passes without pause.


A near full minute, then a second appeared.

West Hall, as he understood, newspaper roofing him,

was still some fair distance. He patted his head, hoping,


I suppose, to summon location but, unable to

conjure or relay required information, suggested

it would be easier to drive me there than explain.


(I hadn’t accepted a ride from a stranger for some 40 years),

so the offer caught me by surprise, as did the wide streets

of Middlesbrough and shortly, the welcome box of light above

a threshold of smokers, West Hall Worki_g Mens’ Club.








I hope that this finds you well.











2 thoughts on “Box of light.

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