Not a Good One

Look guys,

just give me a wedge to pin my body tight,

a rail to grab and stop the body-sway,

a boot to foot this travel into night

and kick the arid emptiness of day.

The labour’s dead and let it rot this one

within that cellophanic engine-room,

the soul bleeding out on meetings spun

at wipe-clean desks, in grey partitioned gloom;

I have a spine that fights its craggy husk

and knees that grate through cartilage on grit,

the train a sweat unfinished into dusk,

departing from the refuse, crap and spit.