Lost Under London

An excited smile, my face I allowed,
as I inspected my reflection,
on the surface of a window,
in my train, London bound.
I could not but smile, for I felt decorated,
with a dash of gel in my hair, and a brand new jacket,
purchased as an attempt to astound the London town.

Past the rows of houses with backyards as dingy as they were small,
my train crawled toward Victoria’s greeting arms,
who, as a word of welcome announced:
“Please, do not leave unattended luggage in my hall”.
Still armed with an eager smile, I did comply.
Though I carried naught with me,
I chose to hold to my memories of home, one and all.

I made my course, keeping a steady pace.
You have to walk fast to blend with this crowd.
Some entering, some leaving, some confused, some stealing,
timed by the timetables, they all entertain Victoria in a royal race.
Despite my attempts, it seemed inevitable, decided by fate,
that I collided with a man carrying his coffee.
It spilled on my jacket, and thus began the tainting of my grace.

I did feel increasingly upset,
as I observed the damage from my first meeting with a Londoner.
The coffee had left an unmistakable stain,
that only grew as I worried of the state of my jacket.
I frowned for a while, but I kept my pace,
As I headed to the Underground,
And attempted to disregard the damned spot of dread.

I descended down the stairs, to be met with shock,
like I had plunged under water without guarding my breath.
The crowd underground is denser,
and the air is moist and hot.
The precipitating bodies are voluntarily crammed to the tube,
so the carriages can bring them through the tunnels,
to meet hordes of people on the next stop.

I became a part of the mass, I too travelled underground.
My stain seemed larger still, as I toiled to find a seat.
Grown not by my own worries as much as the ones I saw:
Lovers separated by the doors grasp their phones so they can be rejoined and found.
Do they secretly wish to separate, actually avoid ever meeting again?
For despite all attempts and reassurances,
underneath this earth, the phones refuse to transmit a sound.

Perplexed, I left the train,
deported my vessel too early.
I tried the way out, I tried another platform.
Both my attempts were wasted, committed in vain.
I tried to return to my line,
to find I had lost my way.
My coffee coloured jacket convinced me an escape was feign.

I spent my night on that station.
Nailed to the centre of my King’s Cross.
I slept turning uneasily, and tarnished my gelled hair.
My sleep tattered by this dreamt realisation:
This underground city is a monster spawned on a whim.
Cavernous claws far and wide, mining an underground, otherworldly labyrinth.
It swallowed me, and I see no escalators leading to salvation.

On Thursday morning, I found my train, by a miracle at the very least.
I sat down on my Piccadilly Line, observed my reflection again.
True, my hair was a mess and my jacket a certain shade of filth,
but my smile remained. I thought of home, and I was pleased.
I studied the faces of my many fellow travellers.
I thought of their journey, and my travels, and I smiled yet again.
How blessedly unaware we were of the pending ticking in the belly of this beast.

By JPV

Copyright August 2005