Spencer Street Station

Everyone looks sad in a train station at night,

huddled by themselves because of the cold,

sitting cross legged each with a story.

Long, long faces for the long night a head.

They make a long job of it

sitting in corridors forgotten

all looking it seems for somebody late

or looking for somebody who’ll never arrive.

The wind whistles through, the grey concrete depresses

and the cleaners come late in their long torn dresses

sweeping around as they did the night before,

train station waiters with their futile cause.

For they see them each morning

with their cans and broken glasses

and the old seats divided into classes

the billboards and the signs are all very old.

The time ticks away, the hours go

and the night lifts and the morning moves slow.

The faces show boredom with the long cold wait

in amongst the workers who rush ‘cause they’re late.

The day folk don’t see different faces in the crowd

who sit and look unhappy, hour after hour.

They don’t even notice how the conditions are bad

for the people who sit and sit and look sad.