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The mess that trains make

A Poem

By S E McCarthyPublished 12 months ago 3 min read
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The 6:03 express to Belfast

Was forced to an unannounced stop.

The train was packed Tokyo tight and

Excessive heat forced a uniformed sigh

From the disgruntled passengers.

Thoughts transmitted through the carriage

Like angry beacons:

Don’t they know we have places to be?

Great, now the kids will be narky

Because dinner will be late.

I better not miss the semi-final’s opening.

This is the 6:03 express, we shouldn’t have stopped?”

There’s another collective sigh and a standing

Passenger mumbles into her sweaty armpit,

“Honestly, the mess trains make.”

In an office not far from the 6:03

A manager finds a minor error;

The fifth one this week, she notes.

But the manager has sons and understands a

Young man’s thinking.

He’s been anxious of late, distant,

Most likely about his big date tonight.

I’ll talk to him on Monday and get him

Back on track.

Her thoughts are confident and self-assuring.

But Monday will be overwhelmed,

Lost in a sea of more pressing matters.

Oppressive waves of Why?

And then there’s the allocation of blame –

God, it’s never-ending.

In a bedroom once dressed in dolls

And fairy tales,

Monet art and uni books replace

Pop idols and teenage gossip mags.

A girl on the cusp of womanhood

Applies makeup in her vanity mirror;

Despite the abrupt maturity in décor

She allows her heart to skip a beat

At a pop song’s promise of love;

Her soft skin prickles with excitement

At this good omen for tonight’s big date.

She declared her first date a disaster;

Nerves left her tongue as plump

As the salmon fillet on her plate.

Now a second date?

It was enough to

Give her hope of reciprocated feelings.

But there would be no second date;

Only the confused tears of a young girl

Being consoled in her father’s arms.

Somewhere up ahead,

in a home

A short walk from the last station,

A mother sips on her tea as she

Ponders on dinner.

It’ll be just herself eating as her son

Has a big date tonight.

He hasn’t been himself

And the boyish smile never outgrown

Has struggled to reveal itself of late;

She prays it goes well for him as she

Pulls last night’s leftovers from the fridge.

But there’ll be no food tonight.

Instead, she’ll sip another cup of tea,

Oblivious to its over-sugared taste

As the muffled words of uniformed

Strangers crush her entire being.

The 6:03 express will

Go no further tonight.

By god! The people are close to

Impotent revolution as they

Depart the train like submissive

Comrades.

They are herded towards

The flashing hazard lights of buses

Waiting to take them onward.

Few notice blue flashing lights

At the front of the train,

Or the white shroud erected to hide

The cause of their inconvenience.

Even the nosey don’t stare;

It just doesn’t bear thinking about.

The last passenger, all flustered and

Relishing the inconvenience as though

Acted out purely for her benefit,

Notes the white shroud and a

Sobbing train driver consoled by police

And she thinks,

So that’s why we’re late?

With an irritable sigh she pushes through

The crowd to ensure herself a seat

On the bus.

Looking at her watch - another sigh,

“Honestly, the mess trains make.”

performance poetryslam poetrysad poetry
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About the Creator

S E McCarthy

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