Another Tube Poem: Tunnel Days

They who serve the suction of daybreak, beneath the earth, beneath the dew, beneath the kitchens where there’s burning toast and grapefruit, bury, with the morning light, their hope of hearing birdsong. — My commuting is less than a tenth of many who live and work in London. But when I am on the move,

Today

Today was the Friday I ate only toast. 7 slices. 4 with honey; 3 with peanut butter a few broccoli florets raw and an anchovy from the tin. I drank green tea, black tea and one cup of coffee poured from the cafetiere. I set out to typeset a book – and now it’s worse