City Rhythm

We do the Kings-Cross Shuffle
at Five, all tubes converge
nether-glazed, tube-medicated
we could reach ahead, all
make a cha-cha train.

Foot-snare music, *Sorry* lyrics,
syncopated - We could be
the world's greatest rhythmic
blues band, jazz-inspired.

And as yellow, black, blue
lines combine, this palette
becomes unavoidably brown.
All rise the escalator, destination
ground. Avoiding fans. Now...

And we separate, disseminate
seat-seeking ideals. One look
conveys disdain for laggers
or worse, seat-hanging scum.

What do you think we have become?
The drum of track-swing
beckons you now.  Read your
magazine.  Book.  Flick poetry.
Phase out.  Call the machine at home.