Thursday, July 22, 2004

Just the Ticket

I was composing a sonnet
In the ticket office queue
When she pushed past me
As rude people do
Hurry! She commanded
The ticket office man
A single to London
As fast as you can.

He slowed down a touch
A smidgeon, a wink,
Had a little scratch
Had a little think
She caught the fast train
Which hurtled out of town
At breakneck speed
Until it leapt with one bound
From the track at Hayward’s Heath
Singing, I am a plane
And buried itself
into a slow goods train
And we waited at the signals
And I sat and watched the rain
And turned my attention
To composing a quatrain

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