Grey Suit Black Tie

Full Sail

If you close down the station how will we all get out? We rode on railways past west bound lines into each cat-eyed night. Someone stole the kettle from the kitchen so we could fill our thermoses with Stella from the tap. The one-man cook/barman could see the foam forming on the floor, one drip at a time. The rhythms of the track, each give, heave and jam was part of our well earned sleep. From sleep before birth as our mother’s wombs would be the closest place to safety. We’d grab flashlights, even bats in dreary eyed noise creaks in night blue skies but on the rush of each car cab cabin we are wrapped in each sheet, each blanket, like the water of the ocean and our head stuck just out above it.