The train now leaving from platform fourteen is
the six fifteen from your waking dream into your worst nightmare,
‘are we there yet?’
Travel may be the means to unravel the knots in your gut
but it’s not cheap,
far cheaper to sleep.
Friday used to be my day to relax, unwind, pop some pills, chill with the homies
and look at me now, another spindle, a spoke in the wheel,
I feel like a cog in some clanking machinery,
and there’s no scenery to gaze upon on the blunderground,
there is only darkness and vacant faces that look into and out from
the train now arriving for those left surviving is
the six fifteen from, ‘where you have been but not where you are heading’
I’m dreading any further announcements.
If work is the saving of dignity why
pray tell me is it making me
© 2017, John Smallshaw.