With solid nuts and bolts
Walls of thick concrete and steel
The underground is held
Beneath layers of London soil
A machine hidden below our feet

Within that machine, another machine
Thundering down miles of track
the tin box jolting forward to a halt
Commuters poised ready to pounce
The doors fly open
And they politely descend
An East London accent on the tannoy
Mind the doors
Jovial beeps
Then silence drowned out by screeches

On weekdays we pass each other without seeing
Glazed eyes darting from thoughts to reality
A bump here an apology there
So many strangers together alone

In the happy hours the culture shifts
Through slurred words and songs the carriage glides on
Newcomers transported into an after-party or restaurant or bedroom at the end of the line