If you step up on the threshold of the seven thirty-seven
you’ll find a lot of newsprint on its way to paper heaven:
the fabric strewn with articles of gossip, sex and pleasure
and a man who gathers papers up in quantities unmeasured.
His visual expression won’t betray his deep defection
whilst his body is in trauma from the size of his collection.
He gathers like a picker walking down a tea plantation,
before a final shuffle to alight at the next station.
What he’s come to process is the senseless of it all,
the waste a day displays brings on emotional withdrawal;
for a thousand pairs of sweaty hands that blacken on each trip
make a thousand crumpled copies to recycle in the skip.