Monday
A suited man with wispy hair
Gets on at Bond Street
He collapses next to larger woman who makes him look childlike
Another man, who keeps opening his eyes
To pretend he isn’t tired
Telling me? Or him?
And him too, two seats down
Inspired by the others
Tuesday
Face pressed against glass separator
With those ear buds in
What are they listening to?
Posh boy copies
Or tries to
But gets frightened by his own reflection
Worried I’m watching (I am)
So he readjusts himself
A slight woman
Rests her head against a bigger load
And drifts off
Wednesday
He smiles when he sleeps
I bet someone loves that about him
And then my own
Who met me after work
And now sleeps his way
Into my poem
Thursday
There are too many people
Too close
To s(l)ee(p)
Friday
Today it’s me
Half-drunk and restless
Dreaming of clean cotton sheets
Veronique really really loves this poem.
xxx
So does Mumma.
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