Night tiles rattle and street glass roils
traffics of cars, faces and moon. But, no star
arcs the raindrop, the shoeshined puddle, the paving, even.
Trainbent, late, and suddenly lost. Of the first to cross
the concourse mouth, I ask direction, but
with sorry she 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, suggests
it would be easier to drive me there than explain.
The offer caught me by surprise, as did the wide streets
of Middlesbrough and shortly, the welcome box of light above
a threshold of avid smokers, West Hall Worki_g Mens’ Club.
I hope that this finds you well.