Tube Scribblings
The train spits out people, crawling underground like
worms, brushing against each other in the rigid space. I walk the other way and
take position between the bars.
The crowd is silent and solitary. Thoughts are
writhing and U-shaping inside the skulls, but nothing comes out. Sometimes the mind
is asleep, protected by the noise of the engine and doors and brakes, not
forced to show off some occupation of any kind.
Here where the other minds sleep, mine comes out in stains
of ink, tiptoeing on paper clouds, careless of the world underneath. Where
Londoners bury their thoughts, here is my writing space.
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| Moving Londoners since 1863. |
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