Inbetween Age

It happened on Friday. Five days in.
Hurriedly ambling from St. Pancras
following the Smarties; tube-fillers
who through rote now herd themselves
intricately weaving to fill all holes.
I am now them.

I must be, when unconsciously
I find myself on the platform
to Morden. Just short of halfway
up the spattered line. Then slide in.
Graciously, I allow the last seat
to an eyes-down lady. Annoyed?
A little backspark of chivalry.

So I position myself, arm
looped perchingly around
to pole-shiver-dance.
Centre stage, I reveal
a shiny red poetry book
read silently aloud

I peek over its crisp white top
finding seated all those tomes
crinkled, time-blurred edges:
A foreign language book
that generations preserved
entrusted to brittle care;
depth to float my paperback
pristine, tawdry. Without history.

Plastic-sealed library book
that shares mathematical symbology
to those ordained in abstract thought
held tight by symbiotic necessity
radiates a desperate intensity
unintentionally broadcast.  I see.

My book returns, catches my rucksack
begins its journey with a frown
that may evolve one day to myriad
rivulets of creases, scuff-fluff, love.

I disembark, sunk to docklands' platform
Smartie-ushered by their osmotic bustle
facelessly placed away from home.  Alone.

I resolve next week to be prepared
and seek meanwhile an emery board
to carefully scuff my favourite book;
There.  History done.