This morning's tabloid lies,
Discarded, crumpled,
Thumbed at the horoscope page
With ribald laughter.

Two seats away, the man in uniform
Lights a languid cigarette -
"Tickets, please - ta."

Faces, once impassive,
Flicker into action for a minute;
Beside the window, the man in a suit
Closes his book without expression
And looks outside.

Beyond the empty landscapes of industry -
Lorries, purpose-built, all the same -
In vain, he looks to the sky
For a break in the symmetry - cloud-searching -
But goes instead to the coffee stains on the floor.

Voices down the carriage fade away…

And wheels thunder on…roll on…roll on…