As we pass Common Lane
and Pound Green,
he pulls the boy along the aisle
by the forearm
without any feeling showing
and almost throws him onto the seats.
Along Drew Lane
the works are coming down
and in a language I won’t ever know,
they make a tenderness happen.
The father touches the hem of the kid's hood
and he becomes a marker for joy.
This morning, I heard that in one day
we’re having a month of rain,
but it’s OK; looking around,
all of us are kitted out for it.