In the northern line
The door snapped open, he stomped in
And thumped down a soft duffel bag
With the December chill, he wore a thin t-shirt
A little too short for his torso
Over six feet tall, he took up the space like a giant in a cave
Mouth full of food, busy chewing
A scotch pancake
His big toenail, thick and uneven, curve like an unruly pearl
With a dull tint of yellow
Only by then, I noticed his bag was a thermal sleeping bag
An imposing air he had
Sensing the surrounding without looking
He saw me looking at him
Hitherto, he was busy with moving, eating, figuring out what's next
I saw his eyes, his tired and watchful eyes
Softened
I moved my hands into my jeans pockets, front, and back, and back to the front
My hands dived in each pocket again
His bloodshot eyes
Glinting intently
Imploring
The moment ground to a halt
I shook my head
The tube stopped, the door cranked open
He swung the bag over his shoulder
Off he went
I let my eyes drift
Into indistinct figures, padded seats, smudged window panes
I knew, and I knew, I could have given him a five-pound note
But I didn’t.