8 a.m.

suited figures trudge towards the station,

their backpacks are mules’ ploughs

and soles of their feet slap the pavement

as if they were stubborn faces

whilst minutes spill through sweaty hands.

below a lead-heavy heat swallows

air; it spits out a grey haze that clings

to the stained-black yellow-bricked ceiling

and tubes clatter past platforms, stopping

with shrieks before setting off to chase

the darkness through our nest of tunnels.

doors then open; they all swarm inside:

packed together, each body kisses each other

until the tube shudders, stops

and the doors open. they all pour out, 

and a child’s cries ring out on the platform;

it reminds them all of what they all forgot.