The train stops, as it often does. The problem is identified
by a disembodied voice I can barely hear.
Spontaneously, people who have never met, may never
meet again, begin to talk
piecing together what we think we heard him say
and cursing or sighing according to temperament.
We are war-zoned, hi-jacked, caught by circumstance
beyond control; equal in adversity.
We comment on the inconsequential, refer to
‘the last time’, find each other unexpectedly
accessible in our common plight.
Some of us even manage a smile.
The train starts again, as it usually does. We retreat
behind papers, books, back into separate worlds.
Further down the carriage someone phones the office
in a voice I can hear all too well, but soon the
noise of the accelerating engine drowns it out,
We roll into Paddington. We scrabble up briefcases,
newspapers, coats, preparing to run instead of walk.
Clock-watchers, watch-clockers. We don’t even think about
our fellow passengers; we don’t look at them.
Each of us single-minded, self-absorbed, late.
The day begins, as it always does.