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.”
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