The 8:15 at Clapham Junction

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An eternity of nothing crammed into futile sockets,
they stand and shift
with distant stubborn menace
as sleepy panicked crowds
squeeze through their blanket faces.

The crowd ejects itself and then injects
slow and insinuating
but clinging on in blinded panic
struggling and resisting
like some lethargic granularity
in and out of a forever fouled anulus.

But can you smell the autumn just beyond?
There are still gusts of air to be had
as you stand back, head craned,
catching the raindrops on your tongue
until the next train comes.

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