Getting Home

It’s Saturday night, it’s central station

And everybody’s winchin

Seeking some cessation

of the realisation

that fun is crawling to a halt.

But not before it’s been exhausted, squeezed clean of every sweaty droplet.

Burger king does a roaring trade

If chips were water we’d all be sober.

Chips chips burger chips

Fish and chips and curry sauce

Mixed with drips from spirit lubricated lips

Sauce and slaw and oil and batter

I burned this off already, just through my evening’s banter.

Shoes are pinching,

Heels are stabbing,

Feet on fire

Dancefloors made of burning coals.

Where’s my flats I thought I’d packed

Find the toilets

Oh god the stairs.

Try find change while feeling rage at the hell heat in my feet,

And then it’s 40p to pee. It’s a scandal it’s outrageous.

Contemplate peeing 40 times but I’d end up there for ages.

And now there is the final sprint

Running always running

I’m out of breath I’m risking ankle,

Ticket money coat bag fankle.

I made it skiting through the doors

I slip I slide, glad not to fall.

There’s singing and there’s shouting,

Bare feet on grimy floor

The train’s delayed, I need again,

Toilet queue is out the door.

And finally we’re moving

And I feel like going snoozing.

Bundle up my meagre jacket

And make a pillow for my comfort.

Late night lullaby;

Phone calls home

For lifts and food

Ready waiting pizza,

Filters in, improves my mood.

Looking back I might have liked

To keep track of stops encountered.

Tapping on my shoulder

Takes me from my slumber

To find I made a Platform blunder – reading 6 for 9,

It’s too late, I’ve gone too far, I’ve reached the end of the line.


Photo by the author. 

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