imagine

Flinders Street Station underwater;

clocks stop

bars close

and as you dive into the entrance

schools of supriseyed passengers

swim past

clutching briefcases,

neckties streaming
there are no loudspeakers,

no tickets to be had

from the rusty Metcard machines

plastic bags hover like jellyfish

and a businesswomen's daffodil hair

flows blue and unperfumed
people bubble down dead escalators

past the NO SMOKING signs

to see watermarked schedules

where trains aren't
and on the tracks

a stingray

flutters grey

while the stationmaster

wastes useless, salty words

on fare evaders