On the way home
Sitting on the dreary bleak, uninviting plateform of Waterloo Station, deviding up a benson and hedge cigerette with her shivering boyfirend. This Friday nighttime is full of rejected drunks, and for the first time, we are not the drunkest; by comparison we are looking quite good. Latenight, paranoid foreigns don't even stare —occasionally they ask for direction. We spreading our tired ,quivering arms and legs all over the stone platefrom, watching stumbling silhouettes struggle with the baggage comparment.
Thsi is when I first saw her! She worked her way down the plateform with the last of her will-power. Her light blue sweatpants have seen better days , and her feet are cramed into city stained bunny slippers. One of her eyes seemed to have leak and it was clear that she was nearly blind.. She cleared areas of the station just by walking through them. Her eyes look like they've seen so much sadness they're forever doomed to apathy.. I'm looking at her withered glazed over eyes and imagine all the thinking she must have been through ; that I fell like I am nearly dead after only two hours , and all I'm upto is killing time before I go back to my ovely soft warm bed..
She put out her begging, pursed hand.
We check ourselfs but find nothing but reciepts.
The overbearing statoin swallows her racked, sorry shadow.
Ligh up another cigrette. The second seem to drag on , forever we coul dnot see the end.. Eveythign seems to be in slow motion, the world seems to be waiting.
Then the beggar woman returns. The wrinkled hand, tendling with old age, had seeked us down.
She carefully placed two 50p pieces into my palm and said, " You best buy yourself something hot. It can get cold out here."
The station gulps her up once again before we had a chance to thank her .