Never here normally – not at this time,
when people whose lives have rhythms different to mine
disembark into days of meetings, close shaves
and private experiences in close-huddled streets.
Never here normally.
My day is suburban. My schedule’s the school bell.
On other days I walk with books and lesson plans in hand;
today the day is open.
Yet before the city opens
I’ll wander with these strangers
through a city waking up,
a thousand thoughts at traffic lights
blinking slow while phones alert,
and uniforms announce the trade
of souls whose days are not like mine.
Huddled in sleeping bags beneath the eaves;
scarf-clad, suit-clad, hi-vis: all this
says nothing more than glance can catch.
Catch this: the passing self,
the teenage dreams now thumbed to text,
executives touch-typing stress,
the arguments, the expectant dad,
these other selves not normal here.
What’s normal here? These souls whose days
are not – are just like mine.
The Consolations of Writing 