Friday, 16 January 2015

Another in my series of poems on the underground

The young man is tense.
His skin is not brown
But his beard is black
His expression focused.
Should I be afraid
Of the rucksack behind his legs?
Of the way he checks his watch
And fiddles with his iPod?
I tell myself I am being foolish.
But I stand and move
To a different seat.  Away from him

1 comment:

  1. I think what I was trying to say with this poem was how we are all somehow tainted by the fear created by terrorists. Like- that guy was no doubt just going to a job interview or the like, but then you start thinking that the guys who planted the bombs on the underground all those years ago must have looked ordinary too.