The Train To Wimbledon
With a snakelike hiss, the tangerine train doors close
and the engine rock-rumbles forward
clicking over each joined metal coupling.
Long gone are the pristine days of virginity
and the impassioned rush of slick new parts.
The small sounds of newspaper pages turning,
and whispered phrases penetrate the antiquarian din.
As an industrial landscaped melds with the
stark spring sunshine through the cars’ graffiti scared glass.
The rigid plasticine interior fills at first stop
with giggling, rose cheeked girl-children.
Herded in single file to the rear of the car,
by Moslem matrons wrapped in head scarves.
The girls’ blue-plaid, pleated, school skirts,
dusted the cobalt seats.
Foreign images, our images, reflect
Dali-like from British eyes of blue, brown, and green,
an American couple
on the way to Wimbledon station.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2008
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