Trains

Sometimes people say the things they mean to
And it leaves an X mark upon the ground
These straight-line thinkers speaking their truths
And leaving their breath on the air.

They are the tall paintings in chapels where he stood,
For months transforming the ceiling;
On a ladder, missing the steps.
Their sense is like a spider’s web,
all connected thread,
stitching the internal and external.

We run at speed.
Language becomes dipped and garish.
Altogether something else, like chicken scratchings
Instead of Bible Scriptures, and we leave missing…
Something. The TV is on the news in the mornings,
Toast, shower, brushed teeth, through the house,
Public transport departing, the train jolting past scenery.
Tarmac, suits and execs, youths in vacated spaces
hanging around the soda aisles and multiplexes.

Sometimes I wonder who is making the right decisions.
Waterloo station, the silent rushed spaces between
Concave portraits and the lonely condemnation
Of self, social selves, and superstructures.
Platforms and shopping arenas, the homeless
For the words stuck in a hole
On their own, not mattering
And occasionally meeting somewhere in between.