The Issue with Tissue Poetry

I have sadly lost the aforementioned rocks and spines poem (bad working title anyway) in an unintentional napkin genocide. Never rashly clear out your hand bag, even if it mostly contains used tissues and tesco metro receipts.

So instead, this is a new one about trains, a work in progress, criticism appreciated.

Train Line

I’ve seen the back end of Britain

From metal lines

Where no one walks

Or sings, with the

Sliding metal wheels.

And I’ve been

To Preston

And Reading

And Slough

But I’ve not noticed

Them.

I remember

There were

Dense piles of bricks

Half a back porch

Forgotten hay bales

Growing grass

And old men

Waiting in garden chairs

To be offended

By the greasy metal.

For two days at a time

I live on

Border lines

No one can step over,

Legally.

But my place is reserved.

Once,

Sitting on a bench

In Peterborough?

I heard strange music

Emanating from the city.

I felt I might disappear,

Before being woken

By the inescapable roar

Of my necessary connection.