The rules of the game
when everyone’s insane
all too sane and
out for what they can get
every journey takes an hour
no standing in the upper deck
(gosh I feel tall up there tho)
the things you learn
never get off transport that’s still moving towards home
no matter what they say
but if it’s stopped
bail straight off
wait, walk or find another way
and always complain
to someone – even just in your own brain
A bomb threat’s not a bomb threat. Is not a bomb threat, is Not a bomb threat
until it is. And terrorism
And then there’s The Met
On the Tube
stare at your hands, stare at your hands, rake your eyes over the stands
do not make contact
move down please
got a seat
eye the crotches, no. Look around, read the ads, don’t wanna be sold to. Eye the crotches, no. read the free newspaper. Eye the crotches, no
do not make contact with eyes or crotches
whatever you do
Mind the gap, wait a lot, shove your shoulder, look away, never delay for the next one, although sometimes it’s a sure thing, hey?
The rules are. There are no rulez. No one learns these things in schools, mate
What a teacher.
A law of… masses. Critical. Random.
Can’t. Believe. People. Do. It. Every. Day.
It seems normal. Actually… it seems very fucking normal
The whole world, jerked around, on a big red bus
what a sound
insane decibels juddering and yet all’s well, we’re moving
kid’s screaming, shuttup, we’re all getting home, no one cares, where I get off
let me off
Back door please!
Today’s GloPoWriMo prompt was to write a poem that incorporates the vocabulary and imagery of a specific sport or game. London transport is a sport all of its own.