Destination
¶ 1
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I nestle my neck back
in the ruff tough of mank mocquette;
the train slips and slides on the
autumnal smoothie of leaf-lime on the tracks;
I’m surrounded by paranoid passengers
some prepped, some pooped
almost all commuter piqued
as we head from Suburbia to Disturbia
and the mandatory machinations
of manual or menial minionship;
my crutch?
My dozy dreams
where every journey ends at Wembley
or so it seems.
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