Lately I’ve found myself on more trains than usual. They’re great places for thinking, observing and poetry.
Another train journey
and I’m skewered
with late office workers,
texty teens, sullen adults,
sullen skies, wheels
mumble to wheels,
and teas, coffees and light
refreshments sip by
on a voice shined
to entice till you catch the
rictus smile with it.
My book had nothing
to add, lines of fog
turning over and over.
He wasn’t reading.
Wasn’t awake.
Two bumps on his forehead,
raw from gawping,
the yellow of stale beer.
Dad, said the one ring left.
Kj25nov10
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