The Locker Room

The greatest love I have for London

Stares back at me

In bobbled hats,


Combed hair,

An absent glare

A lolling head.

The train we all dread

Ferries hopes never said

Along with silence,

On the lips of too many


Worn out.
A cage full of quiet creatures

Who wait for their beanstalks to bloom,

Amidst the gloom of forgotten hours


In minutes lost

To this concrete jungle

We might have found the

The true cost

Of paying fares

To stare from vacant windows,

Where time goes by

Without sight –
But somehow

No regret comes to fruition

In the locker room below light;

In London

It is tradition

Not to talk,

‘Have a tea’,

You’ll see,

Concerns are reserved

For the paperwork

We’d never get

While watching the world

Beyond single-file turnstiles.


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