Waterloo evenings.
The sun descended.
A million ants nightly milling.
Fighting over stairs.
Escalator space invaded.
A melee of short-cases.
A.K.A Brief cases.
Wheeled by city nutcases.
Some in bowler hats.
Some in stiletto heels.
Trying not to trip.

Always in a mad dash to trip to homes.
In one place or any other.
The hub in which the hub-bub dwells.
Full of noise and body smells.
Sense the wafts of perfumed air.
Along with tramps their vagrant souls.
Whose body odour and their very being.
Are discounted.
Cheap at half the price.
Coffee from the coffee pot.
Aroma of enticement an invitation to partake.
Whistle pierces the air.
The train’s at platform number five.

By ladylivvi1


© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)



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