Homeless on the Tube

It's the Northern Line.
The deep one.
It's winter.
The tube's toasty.
It's a platform,
Soot-dark and dirty.
Track mice skit and nick in filth and crumbs.
Stale air funnelled through the tunnels becomes a hot wind,
A crisp packet titters.
Blankets stir and a bearded bundle watches the bustling feet.
One open eye, a dewy disc twitching in the rush.
A blind-man waking to heaven.
He's praying.
It's the cathedral of the mind, it's homeless stain-glass - the colours of the underground.
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