Train Tides

By | 7 December 2004

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

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