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.