The Girl on the Jubilee Line
It’s too early on the Jubilee line
and too many stations until mine.
The high voltage jolt of caffeine
from two hours ago
has dissipated like
A girl with caramel for skin sits opposite
losing her fight with wakefulness.
Eyes melt, head wavers
Like harvest-ready corn in the gentlest of breezes.
With hair corralled by an Alice Band
she gives herself to the gods of sleep.
I’m dozing too by now,
Subconsciously counting stops
instead of sheep when a savage,
panicking shudder jerks us awake.
The first thing we see
is the depth of each other’s eyes.
Her eyes ache to close again
which they do as
a warm, lazy smile crescents her lips.
We have shared a secret,
intimate as long-time friends
becoming one-time lovers.
Her breathing settles,
keeping rhythm with the universe;
wave in, wave out.
Later at Bond Street,
she scrums a path to the platform,
the last leg, I guess, of her job-bound journey.
An angular, scissor-faced women
with damp bird-nest hair takes the spare seat.
She is all edges, petty stresses,
fuss and agitation and we do not connect at all.
I start to miss the girl
whose name I will never know.