He strides through the car park
like the first beams of sunlight, straight for
the train station. He is Monkey,
dressed in black, perfect sideburns.
Perhaps Magic’s brother, migrated to Australia,
works in security. There is no Horse,
Sandy or Pigsy, no staff, not even suitcase.
Arms are for swinging. If I had the nerve
to stop him, he would speak with
delayed dubbing. Every day I wish
I had my mate Bradley with me. He
would ask for a photograph.