Sofia, Poetry
Fourth Station
Cricklewood Station, Cricklewood Station, I wait for the five o’clock with resignation. It’s down to King’s Cross for a conversation with a man in a bookshop creased with perspiration. I’ve never seen the colours over...
Cricklewood Station, Cricklewood Station, I wait for the five o’clock with resignation. It’s down to King’s Cross for a conversation with a man in a bookshop creased with perspiration. I’ve never seen the colours over...