Avast, a poem.

The Underground Pirate

In this, the turning tube of inertia, disjointed through the terra firma
On the Metropolitan line, at some kind of time
Between the braying invasion of the strategic pubs
And the neon halo atop the bald doorman’s head
We are ferried below the city’s swollen belly.
We clatter to a halt, the doors slide away to let the people fall out
And he boards, the clock of his crutch-leg deafening the dumb.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen...”
He crows, and the chipped beech parrot on his shoulder affirms.
“I’m only getting off at Moorgate” he explains,
Holding us at ransom to our copies of the Metro,
Shifting his weight from one spindle to the other, splintering the easy deck.
Blinking in the white noise from within sallow hollows
The clearest blue eyes circling like gulls over a torrid blackbeard sea.
“If you can spare anything...”
The underground pirate, sailing from station to station
Recommencing his beaten demands to all and to each
While the luvvies roll their eyes across the floor
Turning blind.
“Thank you for your time. Have a safe journey home”
And with that-
He disembarks, plots a course, and disappears-
As we rumble onward,
Onward into our own green seas of guilty duvet dreams.