Low on the Victoria Line
A crumbling rennie,
sits next to me on an empty tube
the whispers of solitude
are betrayed, by a woman
in cleavage and hot pants
she pole dances and
waits to entice
sexual thoughts
and her dignity,
she does sacrifice
And the rennie
Sits
I haven’t digested life
It sits at the top of my stomach
and waits to make me sick
I’ve never been able to swallow
It
Or
fill my insides
which are hollow
It just burns my throat
Its acid makes me choke
And now a child walks in
straw in coke
He holds his daddy’s hand and watches us
on this train
me scared of a Rennie, the woman dancing in vain
And I wonder, how is this now me?
there was no warning, no beforehand call
I question – didn’t I expense this fall?
It seems not , as the receipt glares in my face
Disappearance can only be done with an egotisitc trace
Nothing was gained
Nothing remains
I tried to destruct but caused little pain
Only indifference and a pittance of guilt
This shiny veneer of enthusiasm
is fraudulent and in truth’s eyes it
does wilt
And I can’t conjure up a when, a where or a how
as to why I am this person speaking right now
