The carriages plunder
over rolling rocks
warping their way through
fog slung fields

When a pip pipes up
“Mummy I need wee”
to a pained patience from mother
whose two jobs barely do
“You’ll have to hold it Glen,”

The conductor’s girder-bone
jaw cracks while he tumbles
between the polyester jackets
And long-ruined leather

“I can’t hold it mum” pipes pip
“I can’t hold it anymore”
clutching at his baseball belly
commuter’s teeth clench back smiles

The seething of brakes
gives way to the rattle of tickets
sloped brows slope off
to some forgotten sofa

“Mummy, I’m serious now,
I need to wee right now”
The kindness of collective eyes
adore this tiny boy’s plight

Above and beyond the tin dashed roof
four minuscule skeletons in black slack
sportswear sythe tuppences down
to a familiar clatter

“Mummy I wish I was a stick-man”
“Why Glen?”
“Because stickmen don’t have willies,
so they don’t need to wee.”

The guffaw of hard-worn souls
sends sheaths of white smoke
streaking into each other
the carriage turns orange with warmth