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.