On the bus.
A long day. Left before the sun rose, before the commuter train had passed, staring at scrawled numbers and papercuts and Romantic Theatre handouts throughout the daylight hours, then a final recycle run later...I hop...
Onto the bus.
It's dark, I'm dog-tired, dead-eyed, bus-fugged and glazed. Looking forward to a night of spoken-word, songs, basements, booze and bunting...
Sylvia Plath starts to speak.
She's all iPod poems and plumbs, mixing Massachusetts with a housewife drawl.
In the glass in front of my seat I see myself. My outline is clearly defined, the colours are mostly there, all details visible. But a blank where my eyes should be. Well, not a blank, but a smudgy space of grey wool. Some man's jumper beyond the glass. Where my eyes should be.
As Parliament Hill Fields begins, as I head toward Kentish Town, I gaze into the wool. Unspooled? No, woven.
New Year. Loss of a child. Older only child lives still. All seems prevalent, relevant. As I gaze into the wool.
It is New Year. No longer a child... I'm older, and living. Living in capital letters. In bold, printed, not-grown-up-or-joined-up handwriting, so the child is not forgotten.
Indigo nimbus, cellophane balloon. Nonsense words of colours, mists. I want the balloon to pop. The grey to turn to indigo. The wool to be unspooled. So I can see my eyes.