7.56 AM, Ted shouldn’t be going back to work so soon after Adele’s death.
A cyclopean headlight swung round the bend.
No one on the platform looked up.
‘There’s only ever one person on it,’ she’d said, pointing at the red tube.
Inside sat a distressed man.
‘7.56, every morning…Never stops.’
That was yesterday.
Grief tightened his heart as it rattled past.
Inside sat a beatific Adele.
He smiled; today’s train was white.
Haringey Unchained 