Misanthropist isn't in my predictive text.
(Written on my phone, November 27th, 4:30pm)
I wonder what people did before they could stare
broodingly out of train windows...
Wrote poetry, I suppose.
There's nothing like a family gathering
to make you feel like a misanthropist.
And I'm quite happy this train is taking me
in the opposite direction to the whole lot of them.
I don't want to talk about my weekend -
so I'll just talk about the moon instead.
This moon that is so slither-thin it's almost negative;
a comma on a chalkboard.
The frostbitten sky is dark blue and pink,
and yellow at the edges... Like a bruise?
No, too easy. Like petrol stains on tarmac.
It is cluttered with clouds like the different
coloured continents on Conrad's map.
I can pick out the black heart of the Congo.
And the stars, hundreds of years dead
by the time their obituaries reach us.
I tell myself I don't care, I don't care what she said,
or that he didn't do anything to stop her.
And I just keep staring out of the window,
through the distant, watery eyes of my reflection,
my gaze caught on a tiny, white hook of moon.