as you sat yourself down on the bench
in the waiting-room on Kensington High Street Station
almost deserted on a dull afternoon
not long before Christmas
and spun your almost convincing tale
of the African Union scholarship, was it,
of which the monthly payout was late this month…
and I watched myself,
hypnotized by that voice which should be singing
Porgy and Bess up there on the stage,
and felt good, dammit, that I was
trusting a stranger to borrow more than I’d given –
let alone lent – any Christmas up to then…
yes, it felt really good, as if
I’d paid for a lesson in how
to stop thinking of myself as mean, uncharitable –
an hour with a psychotherapist
who knew exactly what to relieve me of…
at about the standard rate