and took the window seat
I thought of Mohammed Sabat, of Khomeni
and Bin Laden.
Yes; the headgear and the robe.
And the fidgeting began.
At first I thught: He's not comfortable
next to a woman with no burqa.
But another thought intruded:
Why this recklessness? Why this
constant checking of his watch?
And there was the phone call
on his mobile. In Arabic, of course.
But, even so .....
And the bag at his feet. Every now and then
he bent down to it. Checking a mechanism, perhaps?
Where? When would he strike? Nearly
at New Street now. Of course!
Maximum damage would be there!
I was glad I was right next to him,
not further down the carriage.
The end would be quick: over in a moment.
Should I phone my family? Last-minute messages
like at 9-11?
Better he shouldn't hear. But I could text them.
As we walked up the platform,
the train twenty minutes late,
I could see him hurrying ahead.
Hurrying to his waiting wife and children.
They all looked happy as he held up
the bag:
Baklavas made by his sister.
All the warm sweetness of the Lebanon
tempering this sad foreign land:
A present from Milton Keynes.
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