His briefcase sat stubbornly between his legs,

A lotion of rain and sweat stained his nose,

Slipping and sliding through crevasses of age,

Down to browbeaten lips; which moved to deliver his decree—

He was not moving.

 

She stood there, noiseless at his response,

Meshed in a patchwork quilt of overcoated limbs,

Her baby bump evident, tight against her dress,

Pushing against her, with the weight of the world.

In gentle grievance, her knees gave a little shake.

 

“Mate, get up and let the woman sit down”

Said a rotund Londoner, from the end of the carriage,

Pointing at the special yellow and blue sign above his bulbous head.

“Why don’t you do it,” cried the man.

I’m tired and lonely, and I need this seat.

 

He looked up at her, spiteful of her youth and flow of life,

And emitted an ornate two sentence stream of insults and anger.

The words pierced the tired veil of his unwitting adversary,

Tears flooding through the surprise breach, forcing their way into her eyes.

Ï always hated kids”, he said, in confused, magnanimous victory.

 

But he was a baby once; he once cooed in his mother’s arms.

He once cried at the denial of access to bare teat,

In simple fright that it might never come again.

When did the simple path break;

Attacked by weeds, devolved by age.

 

X IX XVIIII