The 63 is running late.
The station is a portal to Purgatory, a grim concrete and
reinforced glass lean-to as we pass on.
Above, tight rows of pigeon spikes, gray on gray concrete under
gray skies.
Like barbed wire on The Front. Paschendale for birds, yet
they have more sense – no feathered corpses here to mourn.
Wide-eyed smiling child in pram. Innocent of rain, or concrete, or future. A clean pink page yet unwritten.
Early morning perfume of stale tobacco and Big Mac.
The 63 arrives.
Air-brakes sigh a thousand sighs and we shuffle forward.
Past posters for Samaritans, Park And Ride and... The Royal Opera.
