18 across

walking through a four car train on an eight car run in an oblong full

of the suited and booted, the margins of their manners

slimmed and tenuous, I stitch my way through the carriages like a clumsy ballerina

like coarse twine trying to thread its way through silk

I dink the corner of a boutique paper bag

its owner clasps it to her shins

surreptitiously smoothing

its freshly formed creases 

I shuffle my feet around laptop bags and briefcases, I notice zip pocket pen holders

empty of pens, I press my work boots down

onto the toes of a woman staring studiously at her crossword

she turns her head

her grey flecked fringe sways

pen still pressing on the black and white squares

I touch her shoulder and say sorry, a muted sentence falls to the floor and flinching

she retreats 

back to 18 across

at the end of the fourth car, into the rear cab, I join a resting driver

he unfolds a seat from the wall, tapping it with a hand full of sovereign rings

I sit, looking out

of the widescreen window

watching track

roll away from me

as if I'm 

rewinding myself somehow

we talk about death at 90mph

about signals and fag breaks

the hegemony behind us

disappearing