Poem By Not Long Left
the city's stir a haze and a blur,
each station feeds and gets fed,
never empty never dead.
last puff of the morning fag,
as the train approach's
screaming in pain.
ready to be loaded up with the mundane.
at the back of the carriage theres a baby crying,
whilst beside her theres a junkie flying.
Sheila sits staring at the passing blurs,
peter ponders at the passing thought,
that tonight may not follow the previous four,
lonely binges asleep on the floor.
then there is David who denies his gay,
clearly forgetting this, as each guy passes his way.
oh the trains pains.
nine to five work has taken its toll on Tim,
he releases his tension in sex and sin.
as he begins to fantasise the night ahead.
Happy Harry contently sweats,
gambling Garry worries about his bets,
Phil secretly shakes he needs a drink,
Barbara'a breasts have earned her a wink.
the trains late, but Dan feels great,
promoted to post boy,
but still managments toy.
The train runs on,
on and on.
on that tain every face shows a story,
beside me is Micheal who tries to hide,
his morning glory.
The trains pains are for all to see,
or maybe not maybe its just me.l