Dirty jeans and tattered hoodie,
wedges himself alongside me on the Central Line.

Pulls out a pen instead of the penknife I’m expecting.

A pocket-sized notebook, leather-wrapped, about two inches thick.
First empty page about 80% of the way through.

He starts scribbling.

Intently.

Beautiful handwriting on unlined pages,
words more cramped than the rush hour commute.

The mysteries in his book
infinitely more compelling than
the mystery on my Kindle.