I am one of three unwise men
gathering early at the bus stop,
for our reluctant journey
to the silent city.
I place my bag on my seat
enforce social isolation.
Cover my face with a newspaper
breath in news
breath out speculation.
Breath in fact
breath out fiction.
When we arrive we scatter
like rats, scuttling down silent streets.
Masked spirits avoid eye contact
before vanishing as quickly as
the smoke from my cigarette.
Written after I returned from my last commute to Birmingham and the lockdown was announced.
The cars seem to be made of lead
Petrol tank’s gummed up with treacle.
The motorway’s smeared in super glue,
Like fly paper it catches people.
The vans look like bloated slugs,
The lorries seem to be oversize snails.
Straining so slowly forward,
Hands glued to horns, to no avail.
The M6 is stuck like a scratched dvd on pause,
While we turn the air blue and vegetate.
We’re fossilising on the motorway,
Trapped helplessly at Junction Eight.
Writing live as I travel to Blackpool for a work presentation.
Modern marvel ?
Conversation or I-phone?
We’re now at a station
Don’t flush the loo
And wash the platform.
Thru wind and rain.
Wish I’d charged my phone
Before I got on the train.