The Klingon

The Klingon

Rushing, running, panicking, hoping, barging past

That’s bloody cubical, you’re saying to yourself

Please, please, don’t be taken, let it be vacant.

The little turtles head is making headway

The train station crowd look at you in horrified manner.

Checking to see if the cops are in hot pursuit.

Finally you reach the place of embarrassing silences

You’re insane with desperation, to give release to that turtle of torture

Final with a mighty blast its exits out of you, with the force of a ballistic missile

Then the second one, softer more like the shape of the creamy ice-cream from the ice cream van

Like a work of art it curls up with a sweet peak to finish

Then you hear the public announcement your trains due in

That work of art is once again your tormentor

It clings on to your twin peaks like a bloody limpet

Swing to the left, swing to the right still it won’t let go

Beads of sweat as panic begging again can’t miss that bloody train

You jump up and down, like a tanked up Tasmania devil on speed still it persists

Finally in insane mind, you scoop it in your hand

Slap it down the pan quick rinse of the hand

Crafty sneaky sniff of the hand, well you got to be sure.

Then it starts again this time for the train

Rushing, running, panicking, hoping, barging past

©Martin Hickman 2014