West End


People huddle in doorways,
sharing cigarettes and stories,
hugging themselves
against the frost, the city and the evening light.

Alone as they find that
they share the same favourites.
Alone as they struggle
to find the right laugh to wear.

A few hours later,
with a lump in his throat,
while rattling home
at the back of a night-smothered train;

Remembering her
in the glare of the window,
he wondered if she
had listened to a word he said.



• Simon Freedman lives in the UK, and when he's not scribbling, he's usually strumming. His poetry has been published in The Recusant and The Beat. Visit his website at www.myspace.com/simonfreedman