Tumbleweed

The tube train pops and sucks
like robots kissing
coming into Hounslow station,
the early pale sky tinged coconut ice.

I pick up on the edge of my vision
a low, rolling motion -
tumbleweed, or a rugby tackle,
perhaps a puffer jacket, or a bin bag
caught by the wind on this airless morning,
swallowed by the front of the train,

in slow motion.
There’s silence,
then a single sob
and a scream.

The driver is helped out,
crumples as if he has no bones
and the guard is muttering into his lapel:
We’ve got one under, one under.