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How I love you, sweaty armpit,

Every day at half past eight.

All summer long, I race to join you.

Bakerloo to Charing Cross.


Jostled tight in fraught containment.

Strap hung grace, courts nose pressed flat.

For you are tall and fair and fragrant,

But I am short and bald and fat.


Our carriage lurches.

You are twirling.

Hirsute lip, sweeps

pearl dropped breast.


Will you love me, sweaty armpit?

Can we have just one sweet date?

Despite my size, I'll rise to love you.

Though overground, you are my boss.

◄ Two Grandfathers

Bear Facts ►


Malcolm Saunders

Tue 4th Dec 2007 09:41

Thanks folks. Not much is sweet in those sardine can carriages! :-)

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clarissa mckone

Tue 4th Dec 2007 00:22

this is very smart

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Hilary Walker

Mon 3rd Dec 2007 23:00

Loved it a lot - sweet clever poem

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