stations on the Central Line,
Her eyes explore a man with face as dull
As council flats. "He looks," she thinks,
Will look in ten years, grey, defeated, mine,
All mine." The train now jerks and jars
To life again, then stops and doors slide wide.
She crumples her paper, will not read her stars.
What do they know? It's journalistic crap.
She's beautiful with energy and pride.
A disembodied voice says, "Mind the gap."