The overloud talker sets the mood,

Her life and times cringe forth,

The carriage fills with tales of torture.

Across the way the music man is sitting,

Head throbbing with moronic mutterings,

He's plugged into portable suffering.

In front, a suburban family of seven

Go through their daily dose of pantomine,

Complete with five kids running amok !

Next to them the lovers lie low

Uttering paeans of eternal devotion,

In reams of purple prose.

And every carriage has it's silent witness,

Singular and morose,

Eyes staring, unblinking, unseeing.

About every ten seconds a mobile phone erupts,

Spreading tones of bastardised Mozart into the

Now sardine like aluminium compartment.

I sit in the carriage, quietly observing,

Making mental notes of the proceedings,

Thinking . . .this could be the first asylum on wheels.

At last, a destination looms, Central Station,

Doors open, and flash flood of humanity departs,

For one second there is bless'ed silence, just one second.