(A work in Progress – Here’s the first part)
Sitting on a bus stop off York Way
The trains that bustled through Kings Cross
Hurrying us into the new day, filled with anticipation
At what, who, when we would meet
It was only a few hours later I found out his name was Kwame.
Crouched on the red plastic benches
That OAP’s sometimes used whilst they scratched at their dentures
He looked like a poet or a pickpocket, sitting there all moody
Notebook grasped, pen fingered, ink sprawling over the battlements
of processed trees and bark.
He thought I was a star.
Ashamed, I couldn’t help but acknowledge his faux pas
No, I and the girl he had confused, were just black together
No genetic relationship, definitely not the same mother.