English Sonnet

London returns in damp, fragmented flurries

when I should be doing something else. A scrap

of song, a pink scarf, and I’m back to curries

and pub food, long, wet walks without a map,

bouts of bronchitis, a case of the flu,

my halfhearted studies, and brooding thoughts

and scanning faces in every bar for you.

Those months come down to moments or small plots,

like the bum on the Tube, enraged that no one spoke,

who raved and spat, the whole car thick with dread,

only to ask, won’t someone tell a joke?

and this mouse of a woman offered, What’s big and red

                            A naughty bus.

Not funny, I know. But neither’s the story of us.