It is a slow Manchester morning,
in the Autumn of '18.
The kind of morning
where a coffee cup becomes a heater;
scarves are pulled over scarlet noses.
Conversation is best avoided
to prevent the tremor of cold in tired voices,
telling of alarms at 5am
and winter fast approaching.
A slow, Manchester morning.
A young man as ordinary as you or I
stands on a Piccadilly platform.
He straightens his blazer,
reminiscent of his school days not long ago,
checks the time on a phone screen,
and others do the same.
Mystified by Facebook time-lines,
sleeves pulled down like gloves
defend cold fingers from colder glass monitors,
as articles flicker by.
Flash.
Dreamers in America,
shipped over borders like cattle.
A businessman runs a nation,
with the cold cynicism of any corporation.
The brutality of public defenders,
deadly bombings of the defenceless,
and nationalists threatened by innocent belief,
banishing the faith of millions.
The young man scowls,
and closes the app.
'Too bloody early for politics.'