The single man stares, with the hint of a scowl,
as far as the wall in front of him
while an outsized couple noisily affirm their attraction
about six inches from his nose.

Folded arms and slack face draw a blank
and force the onlooker to seek more
behind his eyes than is apparent,
or there at all, perhaps.

Casual, self-contained he leans back
against the wall, and wishes the gentleman in him
had let him find a seat. Turning his head,
he tracks the conduit wiring
with eyes that still seem thoughtless.

The one red cable he follows 'til the lights come on
and tiles appear outside, adverts and ripped posters.
The back-ends of rats dare him to prefer the dark.

To mind the gap is contrary to his thinking, but
he obeys and steps safely, just a little off the beat
of a hundred other feet. Out of synch enough to turn
and make a dash for the tiles across the track,
just in front of the 16:05, to Cockfosters.