Running for the 2:22

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Running for the 2:22 — John Birkbeck

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In London underground
you're breathless and
twitching for the next
train to sweep you away,
for the screech of brakes
every two minutes at most,
and you're wond'rous wild
in your velvet mini-minis
and pink feathered boa and
leather boots halfway crotchward,
tossing your half-smoked ciggie
into the face of a coming train,
an express all the way to Woking,
your long hair tossing like
the mane of a wild mare.

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