Seventeen Stops
The whine of an
electric motor
and the sharp, iron
smell of the rails
in the underground
station.
A rat scurries along
the rail, paws
in single file, tail
held high and well away from the live.
Beneath a poster for
the Money at the Tate,
a spot of yellow on
sooted tracks
a dropped M&M,
peanut style,
a prize to take home
for the kids
all seven of them and
the missus is pregnant again already.
He may have to venture
to street level
for a cast-off Kentucky
or starch fried McD's
but the display board
says one minute
before the last train
on the Northern line.
Time to duck to the
sleepers.
A tube of wind blows
litter from the tunnel
and the flashing snake
of the Tube
screeches brakes to
slow.
Stand clear of the
doors.
One
person gets out, the last pilgrim to Leicester Square
where
every theatre runs the same show year after year
and
only the food franchises change with the seasons.
Three
get on to take their places
among
the day's newspapers and ticket stubs.
Tinny
music from ear bud headphones
and
everyone staring at their phones
except
for one lad drinking lager
and
swearing at the Muslim girl three seats down
who
hasn't made a sound.
Heaven
is for whites only, he says,
and
spits on the floor. The train slows, stops,
speeds
up once more. Night sky replaces tunnel walls.
Seven
more stations until High Barnet.
No comments:
Post a Comment