I should sit and listen to
the people who've been there
and passed back through
living on to tell the tale of life
and death.

But there never seems
the time to take a moment,
and call it mine,
if you find one
can you kindly let me know.

It's a rush,
rush here and there
getting nowhere.

Snowing
white and cold
feels quite soft
I'm becoming old
and it's covering the multitude
I
allude to sins.

Back to Wednesday which
never goes away
always waiting in the wings
it brings it home to me
that this is what
I love the most
continuity.

Bethnal Green and Poplar High
under the East London sky
and I'm here on the Central line
wonder why that's so.

Among the coughs and between
the splutters
the tall guy mutters,
something
catching in his headphones
something
creaking in these tired bones
something about a Wednesday
that I really like.