Oxford
Stoned,
and with a bottle in his hand
he staggers to the busstop
to ask me if I have been waiting for long.
He knows we're headed the same way
from the (college) scarf I am wearing, he says
when prompted.
Hurling his body -almost emaciated
that particular, concave look,
the hair almost Suede- to the seat next to mine,
he takes out a Livy
from some place within his crumpled trousers
and starts to read
sweetly oblivious,
in equal part
to London, the world
and what may chance in between.
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