(20 minute poetry)

There's a nip in the air
which reminds me of an old pun
however
I'm not in the mood for fun,
too busy trying to keep the heat in.

As cold as brickwork
thin as tin
life only gives what
we put in.

I survey a grey area
a great sea of humanity
trudging endlessly
to who knows where

and I'm at Bethnal Green
between here and like nothing
I've ever seen,

someone has to be.

There's a radio
static, low
don't they know that on
the underground they
impound music
except for songs by
Max Bygraves
which don't count.

I fall oblique
into that which I seek
and miss in the end
the mess of the
West End

no bad thing
but actually I think
Max can sing

Then
the hypodermic needle
of St Paul and his
cathedral
such a busy place.

barring any mishap
or anything like that,
In
nine hours I can repeat
this experience
in reverse.