By Jennifer Jabaily-Blackburn
We met between cars on the Great Western line,
Paddington to Penzance, smoking out the window.
He was wiry & tangled, his matted mess of hair
tugged up into a ponytail. An ancient guitar
slung over his shoulder, he asked if I’d mind
if he sang me a song, a shadow double
of a boy I loved to the point of embarrassment
when I was fifteen. At home, years after,
the image and afterimage converge: copies
drawn poorly from memory, extended to all
impossible directions. All simultaneously
living and dead in L.A. & London,
Penzance & Boston & not a one of them
thinking of me these days, not even in passing.