TRAIN RAVAGED AGAIN:
Stumbled around in the early glow of a grey & fabulous morning,
still reeling from oxygen deprivation riding dirty trains.
Manchester, London, London, Essex. Tube dust, people sweat,
concourse rammed with dazed faces raised up in fading hope to
flicker of electric timetables. Cancelled trains, hanging around,
waiting to lunge to second guess which platform our escape will
be executed from. The rush to be crushed into grubby carriages,
standing pressed up against strange bodies, bags, elbow, face
down into tiny glowing screens. The smell of salty skin at the end
of the daily shift, the intimacy of unfamiliar anatomical parts
separated only by last season’s summer fashion.
Pre-porridge, tea & poetry I’m not much good at the best of times.
The morning after the attrition of so much dirty rides you really
don’t want to engage me in conversation nor look me in the eye
until the morning meditation lifts the fog of dog, when, pen in hand,
I skip gaily up the street handing flowers to everyone I meet.