Comma,

Chaos is King's Cross's middle name.

I wander without direction or an aim.

No one smiles, except the little child.

Everyone else has been exiled.

So they mutter about their rich lives,

as a train leaves and another arrives.

I wonder what gives them pleasure

when not basking in grey weather.

I lose myself until I see you,

and then, a breakthrough:

we are not them, they are not us.

Us, we'd rather get the bus.

Us is board games on the floor,

in Porto Koufo by the seashore.
On the dock of the bay like Redding,
bad dancing at a Greek wedding.

In the middle of Gerrard Street,
I heard your heart beat.
Hey there, Mr. Tambourine man,
come live with me in a caravan.

Here, until the sand runs out.
In perpetuity, with or without
a sky studded with fullstops
and you, forever my comma