You keep me away
from my grey sofa,
Sainsburys risotto,
the smell of weed that
wafts invitingly upwards
from the chav downstairs
and the worn away carpet
smoothed down after
three years of traffic.
Twelve percent of my
battery remains along
with my patience,
counting the liquorice
All Sorts pattern
on the seats,
flicking eye contact with
the heavily made up girl
four rows away.
Ten percent and the
first growls of hunger
strike and I growl
back fiercer
roaring inside
outside the same patch
of gravel and discarded
bottles stare back at me
blankly along with my face
the reflection of the
scorned commuter.
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