The North-bound Train

Let it go, the North-bound train,
grunge in its stair cracks,
shuddering on the tracks, overloaded
people standing on other people’s toes,
in other people’s face, in the rail-space
paid and not delivered
on time.
Wheely-bags, backpacks, coffee stained
shelving pushing into your pelvis
to and fro, throw the litter on the floor
it doesn’t matter anymore
like a sardine into a tin
without a bin
or a seat
press the illuminated button and get
out of that door, let it go.
The North-bound train. 


The Contents of my Fridge are Lonely

Leftover lasagne for two
lurking at the rear,
alongside, one can of beer.

A half-empty bean tin drying,
sharp lid lying
on a slimy mushroom head
beside the solitary bacon, one slice left,
curled up, out of date, hate
being lonely.

The chalky egg sits
lopsided in its crate, awaits
ready-grated cheese, anticipates,
what a state.

Slam the door.
No-one is hungry.


Gillian Hesketh

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