Photography by Mike Urban
On the 133 down Brixton Hill,
En route to Guy's to meet my Dad,
Whose operation has been postponed till afternoon
And who is wandering around the Shard, angry and hungry and under instructions not to eat,
I raise my hand,
And a fraction of a second later
The me looking somewhere unspecified on the CCTV screen raises his.
And it feels that this is somehow important, this gap,
Like the 21 grams supposedly unaccounted for in the human body after death,
Seen by some as evidence for the existence of a soul.
The me on the bus feels no more or less real than the me on the screen,
But this infinitesimal void in between
May contain something like truth.
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