Lemon and Poppyseed

the tube’s jammed tighter than a whorehouse on payday, bodies mashed up like sardines in a tin that’s been kicked down the stairs one too many times. they say lambs to the slaughter get more room to wiggle before the knife, and right now I believe it.

I’ve got some poor bastard’s armpit parked under my nose, another’s briefcase digging into my ribs, and the air’s thick with cheap hairspray, wet boots, and the sour breath of a city that never learned to say no to another pint.

up top, London’s Hyde Park is all green and lazy, sun dripping off the leaves, plenty of sky to go around. down here it’s hell with fluorescent lights, no air, just the heat of too many lives rubbing together.

and there she is, a brunette clinging to the pole like it’s the only solid thing left in London, eyes rolling loose in her head, sweat shining on her forehead like she’s already half-gone. and still she’s hunting for more to hold — a wall, a rail, a stranger’s shoulder — anything to keep the world from spinning off its axis.

but it’s too late,

the first wave hits like a busted faucet — bleurgh! — a lemon and poppy seed muffin, all yellow mush and black specks splattering round her heels like some abstract painting. second round comes harder, projectile, straight across some lawyer’s fancy satchel, pure Cava stink, sweet and rotten, the smell of good intentions gone bad in the gut. the briefcase takes it like a champ, leather shining with champagne vomit, while the suits around her scatter like virgins at an orgy.

pandemonium, sure, but it’s over quick, and just another night on the Northern Line. she wipes her mouth with the back of a shaking hand, eyes already glassy with shame, and the rest of us pretend we didn’t see, didn’t smell, didn’t almost lose our own lunches.

the train rattles on, same as always, carrying its load of drunks and dreamers and sick girls who should’ve stayed home. me, I just light another cigarette in my head, because down here that’s the closest I will get to fresh air. I watch the yellow mess slide between the shoes like it’s looking for a way out.

champagne and lemon,
a Starbucks muffin, all of it
back up by Embankment.