Five P.M. On The 56 Poem by C Richard Miles

Five o'clock on the fifty-six,
a mix
of humanity on board
on Essex Road,
some half-asleep and meditating,
hesitating
just before their stop
outside the closed-down Charity Shop.
The London Paper tends to
set the agenda
for some, while others might
prefer London Lite
interspersed with crude lads' mags,
cheap rags, Harrod's carrier bags.
The office-opiated masses track
their weary way back
to home.
A few, lone
still-awake chatterers
batter us
with tedious conversations
about their occupations
punctuated by time-worn, hackneyed ringtones
from mobile phones.
Thought-processes have ceased to function
approaching Dalston Junction;
zombified, the humdrum herd
rest, interred
in their self-isolation
of non-communication,
sitting senselessly sedated
in unmitigated
dullness from the drudgery of daily life,
cowed by commercial strife
till, disgorged as the bus
spills its guts,
they fumble their way aimlessly,
namelessly
over the doormats
of their dingy maisonettes and flats.