The station floor a drumskin I tick time over
In high-heeled shoes.
The smell of sleep in my collar, the evening news
Turning itself in a corner
Catching the light
Like a dead bird fallen through open ceiling
A skull-piece, snapped off
Easing the mind
Of this generation. The electric billboard wavers
And I become anyone, the commuter too eager
The family visitor.
I smell disinfectant, the damp tang
Of vinegar, captured in other people's glances
I am acceptably ‘waiting’
For assigned destination.
It is assumed, that I know the direction
Watching the flow of bodies through the barrier
This is what it is to be human
Flesh capable of destroying marriages, lives, each other
Clutch glibly at railcards, each ticket number.
Here I am ‘waiting’, the persona well-applied
I want to feel that excitement again
To run through the ticket-gate, flush faced
The sudden adrenaline
Arched in a cry
Coming from childhood
The tracks are live.