Leeds Station

The garment doctor fails
to spark a smile and
my spleen tantrums in sloe berry explosions,
popping as each departure is called.

A sign for emotional engineering
is not meant for me,
regretting the claggy machiatto,
the sushi sweating in my bag.

I don't care for side plates or
that the swimming pool bill
has soared.
Puns on empty platforms, tunnels
and conductors pale

Next to finding the stain
Where you spilt your Diet Coke
As I punched you
On to the Megabus.