I live an hour away.
That’s two hours of my life gone every day.
Every two weeks I live 13 and one sixth.
Five sixths spent on a packet of cheap laziness.
Through the dark tunnel until I ‘Come into the light’.
I spend those 20 hours with strangers, avoiding their glazed glares.
Listening to their sad stories, rustled and ruffled in my ear
as they turn the page of the unnecessarily excessive newspapers
- Heart breakers - They carry a briefcase in their’ hands, a suit on their’ backs,
and a weight on their’ shoulders.
They stand centre of the crush,
5 fingers gripping – almost strangling a bar above them, like the tie around their necks.
They sweat designer B.O.

Then a seat clears beside mine and he fills it with weariness.
It’s still empty.
No sign of life.
Just an immaculate grey Armani suit, next to the ripped Primark jeans I spent three days customising
and a white T-shirt I bought from a charity shop. “HELP THE POETS”

He’s really going places but getting nowhere fast. That’s the Northern Line for you.
Regular as STOP-WORK.
There and back again.

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