16:05 to Penzance

We sear through the countryside
like a sharp blade through suckling pig
This high speed rail service
will call at Reading, Taunton, Totnes…
Smooth West country burrs
as creamy as cream teas
fill the carriage
“Olright mayte, what’s happening gay boy?
Owe, laast noight was properr mentall.”
Seats 17B to 26A prickle
as he peppers his phone chat
with fucks and shits.
“There’s little kids on this train,”
a bulbous mother says,
trying to be loud
but not loud enough.
“Daddy,” one boyish girl says,
“I can’t remember what a marsupial is.”
Half term doesn’t exist
for inquisitive minds.
Two pre-teen tarts
hop on in skinny jeans
and New Look pumps,
holding their iPhones.
“My mam likes Taylor Sweft”
“Mine loikes the clubby stuff we’re into.”
A skinny back sinks into a seat
withered with the jealousy of a Cool Mum.
Hot tea slops on fold-down tabletops
and the rolling hills
and sparkling water
go unnoticed.
Time would rather be passed
staring into a device
plugged in a sweaty palm.
A baby cries,
a bottle of water rolls down the aisle
followed by a hasty pair of flip-flopped-feet.
We speed on,
forgetting in which carriage
the buffet car was,
drifting into a newborn sleep,
rocking gently,
until
“Owe mate, you were fucking WAnkered last noight.”