poem on the train

Grey landscapes flying past rain streaked windows,
sitting inside the pitching and tossing sea green carriage
I contemplate eternity,
the meaning of life prompted by Donna Tartt and her goldfinch.

Two ladies, seventy-something, Daily Mail readers, pontificate predictably.
“Things aren’t what they were, I never dreamed of asking my parents for money”
‘The next station is East Croydon’
“She’s hopeless at managing her money”
‘Tickets please ladies & gentlemen, unshowed tickets and passes please’
“She gave up a perfectly good job with the council”

– condemnation of the next generation dripping from every word.
Who needs immigrants to scapegoat when one’s adult children will do?

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