For fuck’s sake
then a rummage
of backpack zips
as his phone alert
raises its volume
during their fight
And she asks him
Where are you?
Just left Eridge
Where?
Just left Eridge – On the train
When are you here?
In a few minutes – In a few minutes – It’s running late
And nothing more is said
Tag: trains
Platform Five & Six
See it
See it
Say it
Say it
Sort it
Sort it
This is a security announcement
This is a security announcement
The next train on this platform
is the 15:41 calling at East Croydon
Gatwick Airport and Three Bridges
Remain behind the yellow line at all times
Remain behind the yellow line at all times
See it
See it
Say it
Say it
Sort it
Sort it
More Waiting Rooms – Please
[A prose poem]
East Croydon could be LGW or the upstart crow Milton Keynes station – each we passed through to BHX – those visited identikits of brand-stamped sub-city intersections – of yellow lines and low-hung fixed-font signs – there are no seat comforts – no – no more on any platform – no shuttable waiting rooms – no blistering braziers – a common risk in ’72 – when our choices were gas fumes or freezing – Provide us with indoor benches and free heat at connections – Do not risk-assess our comforts – Do not then tell us to stand and wait before the cold blasts of fast-passing services
14th February 2019
Held by a red signal in south London –
in a balloon of wifi – of library silence –
this being a price-hiked compartment –
a restricted remnant of empire days
still served up by rail franchisees
as our ticket collector mis-quotes WS –
Juliet’s soft words as cuffed banter
towards serving staff –
parting is a sweetest sorrow –
and he then regrets these modern times
of –
changes to language – to luv cld b not bad –
Then a roll forward like a sneaking suitor –
an incline takes us without that rumble
from diesel complaints – this carriage sways
over switched points – under lopped trees –
those leaf-spill hazards
alongside a thousand-thousand
other prunings met behind drawn curtains –
those many lovers’ shop-cut flowers
presented in cellophane in south London
on this Saint Valentine’s Day
EDITED 170219
The Commuters
Our Ikea-padded cells
should guard us from self-harm –
but instead they fuck with us
in cubes of coupled calm
Each of us fitfully sleeps
in our over-familiar beds –
we pick at our clipped wings
feathering empty nests
We rise to expected alarms –
our daily rude refrain –
to stumble without consciouness –
to queue for time-warped trains
In cattle trucks we stand and sway –
our iprods poke our eyes –
blinding us from seeing
the pastures passed outside
London Bridge – we rise to screams
as the wheels rub on the track –
we shuffle from the shouldered stalls –
spewed out – we can’t turn back