Spoken Word Sundays

Welcoming of London life.

The squeal of tires coming to halt on the tracks

The hustle and bustle of coming and going
The soft brisk breeze that carries the spry
Laughs with conversation only in small groups,
Otherwise a very quiet ordeal makes these underground journeys.
Biting of nails,
Nose picking,
Making of faces,
The desperation of an empty space
To stare at for the entire adventure.
Taboo lines crossed
When conversing with a stranger
Makes these treks more appealing
Newspaper strewn across the tops of seats
Trash left in the seats many avoid
Yet human contact –
Like the absolute plague here.

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