Empty chair

Five o’clock, a discreet scrabbling at the desk.

Belongings swept into the bag hurriedly, but without wishing to attract too much attention. He always leaves on the dot, always catches the same train, and when he gets off at Brockley, turns the corner, up Coulgate Street,


left again,

he sees him:

the man pushing the empty wheel chair.

He always passes him half-way home,

sees him for a moment,

wants to look back, to scrutinise.

Never does.

It would be rude.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s