[FOsen]

It's rank in places and the noise is loud;
It sports graffiti, here and there, beneath
Its coats of city grit—and that is just the crowd
Who’ve rushed or trudged to fill this gleaming sheath,

Which takes off in a hush of whirring metal.
Across from me, one glum old gent, alone,
Ignores our bright bough’s freshest, wettest petal,
A girl who’s just been jilted via phone.

But when she sobs, his handkerchief is offered;
Her seatmate, who’s been buried in her map,
Says, “He’s not worth it, Dear.” A hug is proffered.
We also serve, who only mind the gap,

And light her way with smiles at Southwark station.
As someone's cell phone plays “Amazing Grace”
I almost feel we’ve all earned dispensation
And may arrive at some same, better place.

Frank