The subway-station stinks of piss

that clogs your nose as you come in.

It's 4:15 am. The din

of people trying not to miss

their trainride home and get a seat

that's not been puked on fills the air

and drowns her timid voice that greets

me, "'ave you go' a Bob to spare"

I barely take the time to look

and register the sudden thought,

while clutching harder on the book

of french love-poems that I've bought,

and make my way up to the last

train-carriage-door and hurry past.

Alexander Rubio