A body on the line at Basingstoke –
the train to Waterloo has been delayed.
You’ll have to wait; the plastic bag brigade
are clearing up and trying not to choke.
Commuter suicide’s no news to us.
We don’t suspect foul play; it’s by the book.
But one more driver, terror in his look,
takes the day off, wishing he drove a bus.
Neighbours or strangers, those who saw him leap
could never know what so possessed his mind.
His unwished legacy – they long may find
the image of his death disturb their sleep.
The quiet desperation of a life
brought by that final step over the rim
to its conclusion – weep no tears for him,
his torment’s over. Who will tell his wife?
