Game. Bus. Match

The rules of the game

don’t engage

when everyone’s insane

or

all too sane and

out for what they can get

innit

every journey takes an hour

no standing in the upper deck

(gosh I feel tall up there tho)

the things you learn

like

never get off transport that’s still moving towards home

no matter what they say

but if it’s stopped

bail straight off

wait, walk or find another way

and always complain

to someone – even just in your own brain

A bomb threat’s not a bomb threat. Is not a bomb threat, is Not a bomb threat

until it is. And terrorism

And then there’s The Met

-bless-

On the Tube

stand

stare at your hands, stare at your hands, rake your eyes over the stands

do not make contact

move down please

move aside

got a seat

eye the crotches, no. Look around, read the ads, don’t wanna be sold to. Eye the crotches, no. read the free newspaper. Eye the crotches, no

do not make contact with eyes or crotches

whatever you do

no

Mind the gap, wait a lot, shove your shoulder, look away, never delay for the next one, although sometimes it’s a sure thing, hey?

The rules are. There are no rulez. No one learns these things in schools, mate

What a teacher.

Preach.

London.

A law of…  masses. Critical. Random.

Can’t. Believe. People. Do. It. Every. Day.

It seems normal. Actually… it seems very fucking normal

The whole world, jerked around, on a big red bus

what a sound

insane decibels juddering and yet all’s well, we’re moving

kid’s screaming, shuttup, we’re all getting home, no one cares, where I get off

let me off

Back door please!

 

Today’s GloPoWriMo prompt was to write a poem that incorporates the vocabulary and imagery of a specific sport or game. London transport is a sport all of its own.

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