By Bill 53 1/2.

You see them standing near you.

On the platform packed with life.

Their fucking vacant smiles

shows no care for the strife.

That their crappy worn out bike,

Will cause all when jammed onto the train.

As it blocks the doors and takes precious space,

And adds tenfold to commuter pain.

Travellers shuffle by,

With many a stumble and fall.

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Excuse me sir, how long

till Central Station?

Thirtyfiveminutes.

Thirty. Five. Minutes. 

Thirty five. Another hour

Or day springs open abyss

Before me, that is, before us

Before I can rest my hand on your shoulder

Causally

And pretend not to expect you there

Or you me.

These minutes are unlike any other

Minute I’ve known on earth

They are viscous, solid,

T...

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