Oblivion until Islington

A flight of stairs.
The narrow confines
of a bedroom –
the one I used to use.
Overlooking the garden,
small and neatly driven.
A slow roll of a suburb,
attached arterially
to the mainline.
Only twenty or so
minutes into London.
The great smoke
of tube journeys and buses.
Rise at eight
and never too late.
Through the gate running –
six hundred paces.
With ticket stub
into a smoky coach.
Walkman on and engaged.
Oblivion until Islington.
Greeted at Highbury
by the twins in hard hats –
never finding out why
they stood there each day.
In with a coffee at nine thirty,
before swapping the tape reel
and heading upstairs to work.


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