Evening Standard Anyone?

‪the‬
‪electric hum‬
‪of a tube train‬
‪approaching‬.

alluminium tube
slipping on steel.
a steely faced driver
at the wheel,
thinking of home
and a frothy pint
and a pie
and a joke
with a bloke
he barely knows,
called Jim,
who works at
the market
with Tim.

‪the sticatto clip of the track‬,
‪the squishy swoosh of brakes‬,
‪the clunky whisper of doors‬,
‪the rush of careless alighters,

tripping and pushing and cursing and rushing.

‪the pulling slosh of air‬,
‪the nameless platform scrum‬,
‪as commuters tired, tetchy‬
‪and late arrivals run‬.

‪and i,‬
‪dry mouthed‬
‪with excitement‬,
‪wait like a child for‬
‪the journey to come‬.

‪”mind the doors”‬
‪i suck in my belly‬,
‪hand to bar‬,
legs like jelly,
‪jolting, glancing‬
‪at
multitudinous,
multiflavorous,
multicoloured
strangers glued‬
‪to iPods and newspapers
as they bounce and move in
a choreographed
underground dance.

a
world
free
of race
and
creed
and
gender.

a multilateral
disarray
of blood and breath,
sway and swoon
in a cocoon of
couldn’t care less.

nevertheless.

i watch everything
in childish wonder
until ‘Holborn is the next station’
catches my eye
on the scrolling display
and i bet on
left or right.

then aware of

the sticatto clip of the track‬,
‪the squishy swoosh of brakes‬,
‪the clunky whisper of doors‬,
‪the rush of careless alighters

(including i)

tripping and pushing and cursing and rushing
and crushing on escalators which break into the sky
and cold fresh London air.

evening standard anyone?

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