Birkenhead Park Station, November.

Low sun through huffs of breath

gilds the standing herd,

they who are stomping a little

as the Westminster clock hand

clicks down the quarter;

they who have started

to dress down darkly,

announcing the month.



Brushing each other

towards the opening doors

they are sucked inside.

Falling out onto seats,

they are docile now.

It is too early for Iphones

so they rest on their morning

thoughts, assemble themselves

over copies of the Metro.



The orange LED figures

snake their way across

each carriage screen,

mesmerizing,

snitching the stops

no matter what.