Departure.

The train should have left already.

There's a woman across the aisle
breathing deeply between expletives -
a panic attack which she seeks to defeat
with a veritable verbal assault.
She files a broken nail as if she
holds her hands responsible for the delay.
"I cannot fucking believe it!
This train should have left already."

There's another man scrawling thoughts
into a notebook that only he can see.
After each phrase he raises his hand
and scratches between his nose and upper-lip.
This, combined with covert coffee sips,
satisfies his thirst for inspiration.
A quick peek over his shoulder
and his thoughts are all laid bare.
"What an assault upon the decent!
This train should have left already!"

A suited man, complete with greying stubble
and thick-framed glasses, seems entirely more composed.
The leisurely descent of each newspaper page
suggests an air of calm acceptance:
an embrace of his South Eastern fate.
The only tell I can spot,
is the rapid tapping
upon the face of his watch.
I'm not sure if he sees It as the
Sovereign of Time, or if he's tapping
out some code to Morse -
"Save. Our. Souls.
This train should have left already."

And through the window stands a woman
whose high-vis jacket draws all kind of questions.
She points to different platforms,
and confirms for one startled commuter -
"Yes, this is the right train.
Yes, I know, it should have left already."