1 minute read
7/7 Matthew
7/7
Mum in tears at home thinking I might've been killed In London. Me and Emily O'Donnell On the back seat of the school bus watching service stations slip by. No network coverage leaving loved ones in limbo.
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Just hours before: a damp mentholated fag shared Behind the National Theatre, a taste of cherry On the filter filling my head with hocus-pocus. Then the readings of poets from our GCSE syllabus.
Between Armitage and Agard, three tube trains and a London bus Were blown apart by four suicide bombers. All as I slip a lavender-scented birthday card and dreamcatcher Onto Emily's lap unbeknownst to al-Qaeda.
At Newport Pagnell, I remember Emily closing one eye And holding a Wagon Wheel up to the sun As if to purge the world of light. 'Something's gone cold', I thought. Call it collateral damage.
