Pandemonium at Waterloo
At quarter to six.
Desperate, jumping commuters
Juggling briefcases, contents akimbo
Scurry like mice to the platform’s edge.
Scuttling, weak-kneed pensioners are thrown into a gruelling moshpit
Seats are treasures
For the fast and furious
Who tread on toes and elbow ribs and shove handbags
Muffled sorrys
Echo in a room filled with people desperate to get home.
Warbling announcements tell of woeful delays
Heels click, mouths tut, throats yawn.
And then a dash to the train turns into a marathon
Survival of the fittest, else you’ll have to stand.
The horrors of rocking up at Vauxhall
Knowing there’s no space.
Pedestrians left looking lemon-faced, scorned
Like a cruel joke we ride on past.
Me seated, on my way to inhale some jambalaya,
Them standing, wondering when they’ll catch a break.
The same happens at Clapham Junction
And I’m just a little bit sympathetically smug.
talking to my pillow. 