They’d Quite Like To Apologise
There’s a tinker without
an axe to grind –
just a tea chest full of
table knives
down Helston way and onto
The Lizard,
all the better to nick the
gizzard,
he misses arteries but
snicks the veins –
spot him from window seats
on the train
where an interminable
litany intrudes
upon these fascinations -
has us glued
to cheap moquette
polyurethane foam,
an adhesive of beading
sticky sweat
and we’re not even part
way there yet -
a hissing classless
deadpan monotone
slithers from speakers and
drones,
plucked slit wristed,
tanpura style,
by a two-fingered woolly mittened
thread-sleeved Stourport
dreadnought:
It seems they’d quite like
to apologize:
for moving slower up your
inclines
than they’d like, for
running late,
it’s a lot to ask; there’s
a lack of seats
due to pulling two coaches
not three,
please give yours up for
infirms or elderlies,
unexpected air
conditioning malfunction
at Droitwich, that earlier
cancellation
mentioned previous, but
compensation –
if you search up and click
GWR Delay.
While Cornish countryside makes
its way
inch by inch, inspector’s
sent, greets you
with a surly, ‘All tickets
joining at
clickety-click, but we’d
quite like to glower,
sullen at the backs of
seats, ignore
that courtesy, let them
punch fresh air,
conjure up streaky rashers
of fare flouts
spitting in pans - ticket
touts, litter louts,
waiting for a long-delayed
day they shout –
‘The Emperor’s got no
clothes.’ Point out
quiet lanes, long and
winding routes,
from
a saw-toothed tinker
grinds and waits.
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