there’s a boy leaving home on
the train – i can see him see his
mother on the platform trying
not to cry – the boy knows no
restraint too young to hold it
in he’s bawling – for a moment
he is me & i can feel that sad
old fear of separation grown
into stoicism followed by pure
obliviousness – you grow up not
to cry you leave so as not to
give up who you are – your
stories jokes hobbies – but it’s
a lie a cruel hoax – because
one day it won’t be you who’s
leaving – no it will be your own
mother getting onto that train to
leave forever to pull away in
that black carriage the pane
of glass making final chats
impossible & tears? well they’re
for boys or for grown women &
yet there they are – on your own
face small & soft but still there
for all of your bravado – it is
a form of sickness after all
whose remedy is the act – &
later after several stops you
look over at the boy who’s now
wearing headphones & he’s not
crying anymore – but you can
see the sickness of home there
still (in his pale stunned face