Party at Waterloo

There go the accordions. And the Union Jacks
hung on the ceiling-girders, and the lit neon –
newsagents, restaurants, adverts or just light –
and the thunder of trains and people going their ways,
umbrellas, feet and suitcases and macs –
out there the platforms, corridors left wide open –
the announcer’s sibilance grating ultra-sweet –

It’s in the station hall. This is the party,
this garish music, all that the station has,

It’s a blues from nowhere, washed-out, pale and dirty –
but hear the station’s desultory jazz.

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