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Thursday 28 June 2018

Butterfly On The Tube

Packed in tight, stomachs sucked in,
eye contact studiously avoided,
earphones lock us into private worlds. 
A shaven-headed man cops a tickle
on his neck, whips round
brow full of what the fuck,
only for a butterfly to hop away,
stopping briefly on the tattered spine
of a sweaty woman's book. 
High on flight, the butterfly flits
through the seething tin-can carriage,
a smirking jester joshing at our shoulders,
featherlight fingers tapping on our backs
until an old woman with a leathery smile
crowbars open a window slit
and the butterfly tumbles out. 
With that the train reaches
its final stop, and with a belch of metal
disgorges its flock, and we zip through
the station, across the road, 
into the city's cocoon. 

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