Tuesday, 05 April 2022
A poem for the 26th annual American National Poetry Month
London Underground
The train emerges from the tunnel
— a giant iron snake; chugging,
puffing out its filthy breath
On the station platform the churning
crowd pushes forward as close to the
platform edge as it dares
This grimy dank underground space
is not a mine; the people aren't labourers
with coal-dust on their face and hands
Oh no, no!
These are white-collar city dwellers in suits or
smart casual clothes off to work in offices, banks,
department stores, libraries, universities, hospitals
Human sewage rats; scuttling beneath the earth
to feed themselves and their families. The thought
passed through my mind every day for twenty years
for I was once one of them —
until I could stand it no more
The train hisses to a stop .... sssshhht; doors
open .... pffft. Passengers spew out like vomit;
the waiting crowd is swallowed up into the hungry
jaws of the iron monster train; doors close .... pffft.
Looking in those left behind see only faces pressed
against dirty windows like displaced refugees of war
Sounding like a wild animal in pain, the train groans,
slides into motion, snakes its creaking way into the
next tunnel leaving stench and desperation in its wake
This is the nightmare of the London Underground;
only it's not a dream — it's the daily reality for
millions of people biding in England's ignoble capital
© Carola Huttmann, 05 April 2022
