Bought it

In coach B, an old man drops his bag

on a seat. This is England; it rains outside

and he fiddles with iphone, earplugs, lifts a lid

on his laptop, Apple, opening like a split fruit.

Along, a train guard asks for ‘tickets from Sheffield’

and -ding- ‘the catering car is open’;

for this, I squirted petrol, fought my traffic,

queued to hold a watery cup of tea?

Hole-in-the-wall, plastic card, keep bags with you:

yes, and look down all the train to see

miniaturisation, conformity, Noah’s ark,

a valid ticket, all aboard, let’s start.

And grizzled, average, lit by electricity,

an old man fiddles gadgets, flexes digits, sleeps.