Train waiting
Motionless on the dank lonely, harsh plateform of Waterloo Station, sharing a rolly with her friend. This Friday early morning is scattered with drunken bums, and this time, we are not the most intoxicated; by comparison we are looking quite good. Late night, paranoid foreigns don't even look —a few ask direction. We begin spreading our quivering ,cold arms and legs in a attempt to get comfortable, observing stumbling commuters grapple with their luggage.
Thsi is when I first saw her! She dragged herself down the plateform with the last of her $RUNT. Her yellow sweatpants have seen better days , and her feet are wedged into city stained slippers. 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.. They are eyes dazed with the work it takes to stay warm, and weary of the excess of privileged people.. I stared at her bent up body and thinking she reeks of survival ; that I'm too cold to move , and all I have to worry about is killing time before I go back to my ovely soft warm bed..
She put out her begging, shaking hand.
We turn out our pockets and find nothing she woudl want.
The darkeness of the city engulfed her ragged, dejected frame.
I Light up another fag. Eveythign seems to be in slow motion, the world seems to be waiting.. I start to even the sleeping beggar at least they feel at home.
Then for seemly no reason the old lady returns. The wrinkled hand, tired of beseeching, had tracked us down.
She carefully placed two fifty pence pieces into my palm and said, " You best buy yourself something hot. Merry Christmas."
The night eat her up once again before we had a chance to thank her .