This train trip going home from work, perhaps
Would frighten me from going home at all
If such things were still (or ever) accounted horrible.
Carriages of staring, hollow-eyed ghosts,
The monks who worship the mighty god “work”,
Who take their meagre pays and do not ever think to shirk.
Thankful indeed for the burdens they bear,
In a landscape of grey they are stagnant –
Like a pool of slimy, enervated, oily fragments.
The trains are grey and the sky is greyer,
But grey-faced crowds frequently puzzle me –
Unthinking, unseeing, unwilling to run or be free.
I wonder how these faces earn livings,
As they cover the insides of their trains,
Unable to use or to entertain their feebled brains.
I wonder if I am better or worse
As a single seat bears me home again,
Entertaining my feebled brain with thoughts concerning them.