Mar-lee-bone

As the doors clunk shut,
the glass buffed
by subterranean elves
in the rare shutdown hours,
he sees his mistake whizz by.
Before he has had time to leap off next stop, seize his other sluggage, sweat up the escalator onto the twin track, bound off and scramble
back onto the platform, someone,
afraid or conscientious,
will have reported the orphan suitcase
and a stripshow's-worth of uniforms
will have descended,
sweeping away all trace,
leaving a patch of clean
in the trays and wrappers.
If he listens closely, yes!
A distant constrolled explosion.