Holding Rails With Fingernails

Holding Rails With Fingernails

‘There’s nothing for you through there, mate’,

he stated, in claxon tones of self belief,

as I pushed past him to the front,

in search of some needed relief.

He smiled amiably enough.

He could spot I was a little rough;

 train crawling through English night,

eight hours after the Qatar flight,

where they breastfeed you with gin,

and you land almost before you begin.

‘That’s the engine, mate, through there,

that door goes to bleedin’ nowhere,

that does.’ As you do, I internal groaned,

checked the time on the phone.

We’re altogether but quite alone.

Surrounded by shivering captive crowd

nasal tones muttered soft but always loud,

cheerful in our joint irritation

self appointed leader on location,

spokesman for the broken nation.

Greying, small and running fat,

slumped beneath his rambler’s hat,

zipped inside his tatty parka

fingers draw air like magic markers:

‘the ones back there are trashed an’ all,’

he says, fixing me with his one good eyeball,

‘Still, look, this is us, travelling safe,

England’s still a decent place,

they can’t help them slippery tracks,

you know?’ matter of fact, sitting back.

‘You don’t get these in bleedin’ Saudi,’

noticing an Arabic tag on my travel bag.

He chews bacon flavoured crisps thoughtfully;

as the engine flounders and starts to flag

at Plymouth: spinning wheels that wail,

foul farting engine gives up, then fails

squealing in pain like a pig on rails.

‘You from there, then? What’s it like?’

‘Qatar is sandy,’ I grunt, in frustration,

to the leader of the nation.

Nodding sagely in state, he declaims,

while looking through the misty rain:

‘Stuck now. We’ll never get there

at this or that time. Not a prayer.

‘No heat either. Buffet’s also broken,’

frowning for it was bluntly spoken.

Showing no intent of forward motion

the train bridles like some stubborn goat.

He cyclop stares. ‘Did you vote?’

Remain or leave? It’s much the same,

we’re trapped together on this train.’

Unscrewing a flask he sip-stares,

‘it’s always best to come prepared

for journeys these days.’ And then:

‘There used to be dry fruit cake

with one good cherry in your slice.

The big society put the mockers on that

and the people’s charter raised the price.’

Holding on, we chew nails in contemplation

await the saviours of the nation.