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
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
Will follow when they curl up to their lady (or their wet dream)
Their hit or their perfect fit.