Commutism

Late night and sober. I watch the drunks dance with the street punks. I'm on a bus, staring at the glaring sweaty people, crowding in, on and out. A pretty girl talks loudly to an old man about her night. He sits, drawn in, huddled on the seat, clutching a plastic bag. I get off and walk to the train station. I step neatly in and out of the wanderers, avoiding the cold shoulders and darkened eyes. At the far end of the platform I get on the front carraige and try to shut down. All around me the coach fills with people of all states and sizes. A couple opposite me cuddle up close to each other, the girl meets my eye and I look away. A few seats down a drunken woman is having a loud argument on her mobile phone. She shouts one last insult, hangs up and starts sobbing. Her friend puts an arm around her shoulders. I find a brochure for kitchenware under my seat and flick through it. I see a penguin shaped steam cleaning kit for £15. I rub my eyes and try to pretend life is ok.