Reading a book
on that familiar bench.
My eyes glued to the doors.
Another tide of humanity
detrains from Marylebone.
I scan, aware
of the fiasco
waiting to happen.
A familiar shade of brown,
it cannot be.
It's happened before
that people insist
in looking like you,
for some Machiavellian reason.
I see your hand up.
No doubt now.
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