Every morning is always the same
Confusion reigns, such you would think
These desperate souls were trying to flee
A sinking ship, or some other type of
Catastrophe, another Vesuvius,
A spreading plague of the modern age,
With the rage that they push
Elbows their weapon
Rucksacks their defence
They seize upon openings and they
Run, crazed, afraid, for they might
Let a minute slip, or heaven forbid,
Miss the next tube, or bus,
As if damnation were the risk
They took each weekday morning
How draining, how debilitating,
That the commute has become
A race for life itself, the survival of the
Fittest, leave all the children behind,
Give me that seat old man
You don’t need it, you’ll be dead soon,
I must get on this tube, I must be the first,
For the first will be first and as for the last
They will remain last.
This is no place for generosity
Here deep down beneath the earth.
Although we are exhausted we still
Push, and push, the train pulls up to the
Station and we leap from our seats with
Such relish, oh the weak, they must
Perish, the delight of the fight, the
Crush to train door, the platform,
Like some other type of hell it spreads,
The odour of sweat, and all undertaken
In profound strange silence
Not one word, the people are
Voiceless, whilst the engines of the train
Whirl, faceless, graceless,
They have no time to stop, no will to talk
The only will is on and on and on
Until the day is finally done
And morning wakes, the stillness breaks,
The stampede returns, and for peace I yearn.


Rose Maguire