|
I see you everyday at
the tube station, with the
same smile of weariness.
The thirty-six different shades
of ties you own (I counted)
can never rival that shade of
burgundy despair of your lips.
We acknowledge each other’s
presence through a quick smile,
a half-nod, or a quarter
rise of the left eyebrow
when we meet, again,
as TfL-comrades.
I wonder whether you enjoy
what you do. Looking at
the train timings, standing there,
at the platform with your brethren
of corporate apes, shouldering
the world’s burden, like a stoic
fisherman who keeps waging battles
with the unpredictable ocean,
all for the sake of a good
catch for the day.
You know it’s all for a pittance of
survival, a chance to put that
creased degree to good use, to
make up for all the day jobs and
night jobs you did to put yourself
through college so you can rest,
on your laurels, or so you thought.
So you and I, we do this
uniformed nonsense of catching
the train, cursing slow walkers,
envying the modern lotophagi,
whining about that one minute
delay of the Jubilee line or screaming
at ticket officers for wasting our time
at the oyster tills - never stopping to
think how much of a wreck we’ve
become, over all the little delayed
minutes, seconds and miliseconds,
for a journey which perhaps
isn’t as worthwhile as we imagined.
|
