On Starting for the Hospice Three Hours Too Late

My new-laid phone screen’s cracked, mirror-like, from side to side

Gulls wheel above the train, and black-faced sheep graze good earth bare.

There was no time for coffee, as there never is when you need it. 

The first time I am able to leave the city in two years, I eat a large, awful pastry.

Disliking it means that I can taste it, and likely don’t have plague.

Eating it means I am still alive.

The station, when we come to it, has a maintenance shed. Wires feed in; trail out. The holes in the roof must let the rain in.

Nothing in England has been cared for since before my birth. I have no expectation, anymore, of better. 

From a spine-knobbed clump of cloud, wisps spread like butterflied ribs.

Life is exactly what it is, and lasts exactly as long as it does. 

My phone is old, and loses power easily. I have two more trains before me. A boat, and then a car. 

Your calling me is not a good idea right now.