Moorgate To Temple, Circle Line

There is a man sitting opposite In a red and black striped shirt. His eyes are a little mincey And his forehead frowns Of its own accord. He smells a bit like Christmas. He is not a summer man. He is married. His wedding day was happy, Many friends attended. He was young and now he is old And the wedding ring grows inwards As the wrinkles expand. His hair is thinning. When he looks in the mirror He is a little shocked. But his infant depression Is distracted by the smell of autumn Leaves outside. He is going to a lover, He has that pretence about him. But his hands betray some intelligence Which his small and wonky nose destroys. The best thing is That he has no idea I am writing this. I don’t like his shoes. I will stop now. It seems awfully mean.