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Encounters at the End of the World
Alex Bell
At rush hour, the speakers at Manor House
dole out Le Nozze di Figaro.
Two pairs of headphones on my carriage
fail to contain the flattened voice of Rihanna.
In the bar where we had that particular conversation,
during breaths I could hear a couple discussing their love
for the films of Werner Herzog.
As I got up to leave, I was secretly appreciative
of an unknown woman giving you the stinkeye.
A Biro wrote on the stall's inside door:
the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.
A marker replied simply: SPICY MAN.
I wonder if the mice are the same colour as the dust
on the tracks, or coated in it, like truffles in cocoa.
In London you're never more than a foot away
from a person with bogus facts about rats.
Alex Bell lives and works in London. Her work has appeared in the Rialto, Magma, Poetry Wales and the Quietus. She enjoys real ale and the blues.
Well Versed is edited by Jody Porter – wveditor@gmail.com
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