There’s a grey-haired pile of jumpers waiting
for the 6.05 to Crewe – delayed again.
Feet frozen, she’s passing time crowd surfing

through a wave of suits, each wishing himself alone
far away from the kids, the wife, the mistress,
the smell of deep fried sweat and the platform crone.  

Emerging from darkness, heavy-bellied, ponderous,
the train chatters into bleaching strip-lights.
He stands in the doorway, immaculate in dress-

shirt, bowtie, eyebrow commas inky black
on milky skin. From the roof comes a leaping
red-lipped Fury, shark teeth bared to bite

down. He’s closer than he knows to running
crazy naked forever. But fury’s playful,
gin drunk on someone else’s suffering,

in no mood for more than leaving spiteful
pock scars on virgin skin, a memory
of fingernails lacquered deep sea purple

and an old woman mumbling softly
cursing all the things she cannot see.