Commuters, Northern Line, London 6:32 to 6:37 p.m



Breaking in two,

The other bit

Crude, dry

Scab, ready to

Drop off.

Reach rail,

Look on, Forget

The week gone

Wrong, soak

It up with

Paper sponge, the

Metro swab –

Clean dirt with

Dirt, hold it

Tight –

Jolt – shifts

The train –

Hand flesh is felt, ridges

From another

Land, fingers and


“What can you see?”

It says, this finger-

Feeling attached to

A voice, somewhere


“What do you mean?

I’m reading.”

“Exactly, you said it,

Not me.”

“?”  says his face,

“!” says her nose –

Her mouth opens

Once more – “You are

Reading not seeing –

If you saw what you read I

Know you’d stop

Dead in your tracks.”

“You’re mad, he said.”

“No, the Metro’s for

Fools, sponges,

You might say.”

She meant no

Offence, only

To break through,

Shatter the

Void stretched

In that two

Foot  space, wedged,

Stuck between

Him and herself,

Embankment and Waterloo.

(25th November)