Love At St. Lazare Poem by Louis Awad

At Victoria station, I sat holding a spindle.
It was the spindle of Odysseus.
(forgive me, reader, for the change involved).
I saw them, I saw them, the dwellers on the Argosy, mostly
women wearing trousers and rubber shoes.
As for us, that is, you, Alfred Prufrock and myself, we have
spindles with which to while away our time. Between threads,
we rais our eyes to the waves on the horizon, in the hope
that they might be bearing the argosy,
and the morning, when the wave on the horizon becomes the
wave on the shore, we might see the face of happiness.
I sat holding my spindle waiting for the unknown Penelope.
Did Penelope come to platform eight?
No, Penelope did not come to platform eight.
This gloomy island. I saw the ships entering its bays,
heavy with freight.
I saw the ships carrying perfume, wood and myrrh.
I saw the ships carrying slaves for the fleshmarket in
Wilberforce's birthplace.
I saw the ships carrying fish for Alaska, sugar for Mauritius,
cotton and onions for Egypt, tea for China, opium for India,
parrots, elephants and cosmetics for the north and south poles,
and machine-guns for friend and foe alike.
But I did not see the Argosy among them.