In a bid for a moment's peace you came. And on the train I was left to confront my fear of long poems and family reunions by reading Frank O' Hara under your steady gaze; unable to follow my own vein of thought or understand the irony of Personism that you seemed to grasp and laugh about knowingly. Seeing me in my worst light you shone brightly in the window of the carriage while I tried unsuccessfully to catch one of the two eyes that nearly didn't come in that tired sight. Grabbing with outstretched hands and low expectations waiting for something to clear me of something. Hours later, I tried again but my eyes were struck-through in the reflection of the photograph that was taken; hanging on happy stalks while red-legs joined arms and lovingly danced folding one over another as part of their own paper-napkin-dance. And I thought back to this night in ten year's time: the red marks under my eyes a clear sign that I haven't slept enough this year. Less tonight than even before tonight watching helplessly from the corridor; luxuriously wishing wishes I won't be wishing in ten years about writing long poems about New York artists and parties where poems are made up on the boat over.