The sockless boys with canvas bags have all gone home. Or are out somewhere sipping at their cigarettes and bottled beer.

At night, travellers see the escalators for

What they really are,

And walk up or down them

-not just waiting to be delivered-

Because it is their time of night to get going

Not wait.

I catch a glimpse of a west end player

Heading home in his normal clothes

But perfect teddy-boy hair.

Every so often, the darting eyes of those looking for a hit

Or the misty eyes of those between kisses

The station isn’t empty but everyone here is conspicuous somehow,

The crackheads and the

New romantics,

And others,


Will follow when they curl up to their lady (or their wet dream)

Their hit or their perfect fit.


About hereisthemoment

I write. Sometimes I don't.

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