(20 minute poetry)


On point duty
not a surprise
they often boot me
from pillar to post.

it's raining here in
London Town
umbrellas up
all heads down.

At least I got a seat
bumped shorty out of the way
and beat him to it,

if this was his Waterloo
he's on the wrong train.

here
there is no rapport
no
esprit de corps
it's every man for himself.

The busker plays a melody
a mouth ***** that's telling
me
talent abounds,

On the trundle round the underground on ancient
rolling stock
I sometimes find myself in shock
or else in Stepney Green.


Withdrawing from the bank
frankly disappointing
and you've got to have *****
to pull into St.Pauls
I do it anyway.

Monday
neither the beginning nor the end
just a day in which I spend
some hard earned
time.