I do not take kindly to consignment
to the Guard’s Van. Bridle and jib as I may
like a thoroughbred or a racing yacht
taut with identity
I am pushed up the ramp and
into a boarded emptiness where is no handhold
and little warmth in the evening of this
early spring day.
A different perspective is valuable to
a poet but it rankles, sharing with bicycles, and
any companions perched on the single
inadequate seat,
nowhere to urinate and at the mercy
of any weirdo beered up or reckoning a
cripple fair game on the late
train to London.
That it is a metaphor for the human condition
excuses nothing: I’d choose my own vantage
point from which to comment
or to rail
and the windows are small and unreachable;
trapped apart from my fellow travellers
I can interact only by acts of
rebellion: so
do not go unprotesting or without truth
into the Guard’s Van; do not forget even if – as
sometimes – you are fitted into First Class;
do not go docile;
the meek may inherit the Earth but first I
would arrive at a station unannounced, travel second
class, visit the bar, chat up strangers
and piss in a toilet.