Journeymen

I sit in the window enjoying breakfast at my leisure,

Taking in the traffic on the pavement outside.

It is cold out there and

The anonymous scurriers are

Wrapped up against the biting December wind.

They have been up early to get there

Though I am now just sitting down to start the day.

Full English, tea and toast and then

I leave the warmth of the hotel and venture forth

Looking for my destination,

Unsure of my options.

 

Heading for Victoria Station I swim against the flow of office fodder,

Miserable looking people subjected daily to discomforts of the commute,

Crushed into compartments,

Standing within sweat smell of strangers

Trapped on the treadmill of the city.

 

Trapped.

 

I take the taxi option.

It is the only one available

As the voluntary queue for compression

On the Underground looks longer than the taxi rank.

 

A good meeting and later I do take the tube

For a lunchtime get together.

Plenty of time to people-watch.

A mother speaks Spanish to two young girls

Who reply in both Spanish and English

As they see fit, lucky girls.

Otherwise few speak.

 

A  busker enters the compartment

Complete with bedroll and survival gear.

Tattooed, with shorts and worn leather gaiters

He entertains poorly with a penny whistle.

The carriage ignores him with a practised survival instinct.

But I give him a pound as I leave at the next stop

Poor pickings, and all he got.

 

Homeward bound

On the train a phone sings out “swing low sweet chariot”

And a voice answers “hello?”

Others doze or are sucked into their laptops,

There is little talk as the chosen ones

Head home after a long day at their machines.