Stanzas: Monthly Chapbooks August 2015 (Collaboration) | Page 36

One
Kieran Grace

Victoria Station at Rush Hour
Mel White
Airports were the punctuation marks of my life
but this was the life sentence of the masses.
Briefcases and nameless faces, clad in masks of sameness,
filed in criss-cross patterns by;
lives flashed, in shades of grey, before my eyes;
disembodied limbs striding into a painting - not a photograph,
because I was, and still am, living history.
Barefoot, because I owned no shoes, I sat apart,
on the cusp of East and West, on the floor of Victoria station,
with the dirt of India under my fingernails.
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