The train I take often, because I am poor.
Is a trip of five minutes and fifty four.
And one thing that I was thinking lately,
is that I don't really want to pay that £2.80.
Because in my brain somewhere, in areas colder,
I wonder how much of my ticket stub goes to shareholders.
Perhaps I'm paying for a new luggage rack.
But a portion goes to an investor's third Cadillac.
And I know that it's strange, I know it's absurd.
But I believe in the power of the spoken word.
And I have a plan, though I'm not totally sure.
What if I chatted to the conductor for that five fifty four?
And so I get on the train, it rolls out the station.
There's a feeling in my chest that's approaching elation.
The conductor approaches, passes by the stuffed bins.
The pernicious official meets the suave Errol Flynn.
"Tickets please."
I smile and take out my wallet with pride.
Readying for an Oscar winning-confidence lie.
The crestfallen face, the droop in my gait.
Tiny Tim on a Christmas, featuring sad empty plate.
"Oh." I say, looking up at the official.
"My ticket must have had, some kind of dismissal."
"Some kind of removal, some kind of vanish."
"Like Shangri-La, or the city of Atlantis."
The conductor fiddles with the machine on his chest.
He's a man on a mission, and not enjoying my jest.
But I'll Go The Distance, just like Michael Bolton.
And I change track with my plan, as the train's now at Olton.
Now the Eagle-eared amongst you, know that's not our stop.
You distrust your protagonist, think my story has flopped.
But I walk up the line, in the wet morning breeze,
And slide back through the train doors with relative ease.
"Hello again." said the train conductor. But my face doesn't sag.
I explain quite plainly, I've forgotten my bag.
And he can help me look for it, just for a while.
I think I left it in the train's other aisle.
Five coaches in any direction would be fine.
The conductor agrees, but said I should buy my ticket.
I take out my debit card. Get ready to click it.
But the hangman's noose raises and my eyes, they grow wide.
I pull out my ticket, from my jacket's inside.
I had it the whole time, and I simply forgot.
The conductor staples the paper, then he looks down.
When his face comes back up, it is wearing a frown.
For the ticket says January 18th 2020.
Today's January 19th 2020.
But that doesn't matter now, as the train's at my station.
And it dawns on the conductor, in one smack of frustration.
The overstuffed bin, with an empty carton of Pringles.
And like small country towns, also full of used singles.
A parlour trick, a sleight of hand.
From the fastest gun that roams the land.
And as I walk through the sliding doors,
I take a moment, and take the pause:
To wave at the man who's crushing the ticket.
His moustache bristles, that red-brown thicket.
"I'll get you tomorrow!" he yells like a loon.
Not knowing my next shift is tomorrow afternoon.
And as the train leaves the station's little enclave,
I was raised not to be rude.
So I make sure to wave.
