The 16: 19 Westbound. Poem by Lauren Michaels

The light is greyer than it should be.
It pours all over endless
heavily rectangular gardens.
I can't imagine those right angles
Played by sunlight.
It would create such monstrous shadows.

There are three suitably grey ducks
In the murky canal water.
I swear I'd think it cliched
If I hadn't seen it myself.
Their already fragile buoyancy threatened
by an onslaught of stones
And just plain misery.

Cast on by two small boys.
I'd call them young.
But for their gnarled faces
And the nightmarish imp quality
That hangs over their thoughtless agression
Like an aura.

And a mother,
only a mother. She is characterised
By the baby on her hip
And the girl that pulls at her hand
Her coat is a dreamy purple
Splash of colour in the grey.
A factory behind them pumps out smoke
It looks like the wind is carrying it away
But it just dissipates and swarms all over them

The aspiring journalist beside me
Is jittery with prospects of
Big American Bands.
Green enough for a disposable
Ten minutes before hand.
He is characterised by
phone conversations and a carefully
Nonchalant attitude.

Across a man
Bordering on his autumnal age
Characteristically unshaven.
Licks his sleeve and wipes the table
I don't know why.
I'm sure its not his mess.
Still,
Why should he have to live with it?