That look you gave me.
Squashed against stranger.
hot writhing and sharp elbows.
as you tried desperately try to read the news,
paper held close, tight, folded.
Nearly smudging ink across your angry face,
carriage so tightly packed.
One glance tells a thousand stories.
Big city blues.
You’re not married.
Several failed relationships.
You hate your empty, cold one bedroom flat.
And you’re furious, furious
that the only meagre piece of human contact,
the only time you feel another’s warmth,
pressed hot to yours
is a strangers on a train.