The Last Commute

Sometimes, often during the middle of the night, a sequence of rhyme comes into my head. The below poem came from nowhere, but I think encapsulates the daily grind of the London underground.

THE LAST COMMUTE

I'm not sure how I'd be in space,

Where air is thin, no human race,

D'you think that I would miss this place,

Where people turn away? 

A mountain lodge with snow outside

The sort of place where I could hide,

From seas of faces far and wide,

Where people turn away 

Shadows flicker from the sun,

A leafy path where I would run,

That leads away from this old town,

Where people turn away 

But here I sit or stand and squeeze 

When all I want is to feel breeze,

Not huddled up with folks like these,

Where people turn away 

And so it's time to make a stand,

A cottage row or foreign land,

A blowy beach with golden sand,

Where I can turn away

It sounds so easy, just to say,

That I'd be welcomed far away,

But I believe there'll be the day,

When people smile my way.

Andy Frazier - October 2018