Season Tickets


At fifty miles an hour
along London’s tracks,
beside allotments,
and back-to-backs,
past six-deep internees,
stacked in graveyards,
parallel to house building,
and joggers in parks;
above small archways,
over scrapyards of crap,
then on to the river,
across spanned tracks,
crossing the Thames
the commute here slows,
almost a pause,
but then over they go,
for eight long hours
of Powerpoint charts,
‘a quickie’ in a bar,
then home from the farce.


 

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