Not Home Yet

It is 6AM
and (not realising
that we have spent
the last eight hours dancing
to the sound of a TARDIS
materialising
and then dematerialising)
sabretooth security yutes
herd us toward
fuzzy exit doors.

My maroon and orange M&S jerkin,
wet with honest sweat,
becomes a second skin.

The lettucefresh dawn
looks obscenely green,
like two Incredible Hulks
making love.

Digbeth station in the early morn.
Sitting stiffly waiting for the coach.
Stark staring strangers,
eyes filled with reproach.

Light winds blow through the soul.
A slight twinge of back pain.
We remember the embers.

Last night's glow remains.

B.R. 21/10/2017