Sunday Train

Kneeling in a passage, in a train, going home
Sardine-style and sweating, Sunday night on my own
Peering through the glass, fancy headrests, all that space
Wishing for clemency and the conductor's good grace


Knowing all full well that I'm chancing my arm
Trying to improve my trip, not doing any harm
Sardine-style and sweating, Sunday night, going home
No reception, no friendly voices, no distraction from my phone


Cradled by dingy carpet as my thighs begin to burn
Sidling towards seats wondering when will be my turn
Sardine-style and sweating, Sunday night, not long to go
The longest is the last hour, empty seconds, syrup slow


But this is time to work, let's all be productive
I'll unfurl my tome and con myself constructive
My thesis stares vacantly as vacantly I do stare
This competition continues but is decidedly unfair