It’s five a.m. and there’s two hours
of layover so I become
a tourist, taking low-resolution
pictures of the frieze
on King’s College.
The wind is snapping
an untied garbage bag and for a moment
I think I’m not alone.
At four minutes to six
a woman leaves the McDonalds,
she picks up a tumbler placed
by a doorway in the narrow lane.
She says something in Russian
and breaks the glass on the brickwork
of the doorframe.
She looks at me as if
by observing, I’m the weird one,
shattered on the flagstones
streetlamps caught on my edges.
