Breath, it is seriously quiet on this train.
Look, that girl and her guy are energy-high on caffeine cans
but no way will they talk,
the bloke with no head on me left arm has zoned to replay
on a three-inch screen,
the emaciate sylph with feet under mine is flicking face pics,
there’s even two books.
Noise? C’mon, cough someone.
Spar above the ear-pip tunnels, sing the bogie drone,
babble through the suck of bridges.
Annoy me, pierce me, pull me ears and rip me jacket
with your mechanical teeth.
I love that London. I miss that London.
Where are you now, Friday night?