The Console You run remorseless From screams of both skin-bound and Pixellated mouths.
The Waiting Room. Nose stripped sterile with Smells you don't want to mention, Trying not to breathe.
The Bus. Stomach overturned, Conversations overheard; City overture.
The New Year. Slipshod footsteps on A bridge, ramshackle at best, Swept up in the surge.
The Platform. Just tapered greyness, And lights wilting to a spot; Just one more damn stop.
