Curry, off Oxford Circus, at 5PM —
     Aeneas, alone, ate for distraction
at loose ends of jetlag after
     the turbulent flight from O’Hare.
All night the hull had shuddered
     clearing reefs of cloud below.
He was abroad for another acquisition,
     another trip rehearsed by rote.
Tomorrow, he knew, would lose him
     in work’s familiar tallied tedium.
Tomorrow he would board the Underground
     for offices in Oliver’s Yard.
Tomorrow as the train leaves Euston
     the sibyl will shift register
somewhere keening in the compact car
     boils will pock her shins
her lamentations will reek of piss
     she will crowd the doors
offending forward as they slide open
     her complaint will spill out
absorbed into the thick human drift
     at Kings Cross St Pancras
unseen she will parabolize the sky
     tomorrow hides like false recollection