by STEVE RUDD
Between Southport and Liverpool, on a bog-standard train
I witnessed a miracle, in the face of gnarled pain,
And a man, on the edge, of not just his seat…
Staring into the depths of a life on the tracks,
Beaten by work, every day, there and back.
Heads supported by hands. Fingering tabloids;
Earphones intact. Not a single soul speaks.
It’s a conversation killer if ever there was none.
A silence pervades…
The music of screams.