Sensory deprivation It’s Monday morning, so plunge me in the tank again. Goodbye to fun and reality, now switch on the inane. The mirror in the bath room sucks light in, it’s insane. The trudge to the station, the green mile, once again. Repeated mental torture, can you sense my distain. A period of limited sensory upload, always the same. It is sucking the life out of me, now, am I being plain. Five days taming the raging lion, of stroking the mane. Obvious in commuters’ eyes, we’re all playing the game. Only work, everyone does it, just me feeling the pain? (Written by Loot and read by Lorraine Ansell )

This Morning As I walked this morning my worries died. As I hit the Thames, I became inspired. Reverently I passed the Royal Festival Hall. Offering entertainment for one and for all. Under Blackfriars and on to the Tate Modern. Trees filter light and wake the down trodden. Past the Globe, the home of many an act. As I pass I am thinking of a brand new pact. I am starting to feel the cobbles under foot. Sweat starts to glisten as I trip over a root. Plough on regardless under Southwark Bridge. Now the Anchor is in sight, believe me I wish. Away from the water and down Clink Street. My back is starting to ache and so are my feet. Down Tooley Street, I am so nearly there…. By now I’m a sweaty mess, but hey do I care? (Written by Loot and read by Lorraine Ansell)

Man on train (Inspired by a man on a train) Shiny suit, collar brown, Sleeves rolled up, looking down, Case on lap, notes on top – Meeting notes, perhaps. He mops His brow, and writes in blood red ink Pauses, and reads, and has a think. Adjusts his tie and uses phone ‘What time is dinner? I’ll be home Quite soon, provided that the train Remains on time, despite the strain Of passengers and damaged lines…’ And days like now, when the sun shines Which makes me hot, and what I want Despite my study of small font On paper, on my case, today Is to throw the bloody lot away And jump off this God-awful train Which takes me up to hell again Tomorrow, and the next day, too Because, you see, it’s what I do I catch the o six forty five Which is scheduled to arrive At eight fifteen, just in time To catch the tube, the district line And in the office, paper chase Admin, meetings, it’s a race Against the clock, to get it done What is it, though, that makes us run This fast, and dress in funny suits? Laptops, mobiles, we fill our boots With crap, and walk a mile alone Achieving nothing, dragging stone Leaving patterns here and there Leaving chaos everywhere No-one knows quite what it’s for, The endless journeys, door to door Decisions which mean nothing much Action plans which do not touch The lives of people on this train, Their problems, questions and their pain For now, though, I will mark with pen The pages on my lap, again Small font, tired eyes and aching head Home, dinner, telly, then to bed. (Written and read by Jenny Knight, 2008) To hear and read more poems about life at work visit http://organisationalpoetry.com

'Contagion' Traveling in a test Tube, a stop, start, petri dish. Exposed to full frontal viral assault, more than I wish. Immunity challenged each time I take a breath. Attracted down the escalator, gambling with death. Forced to grab a support rail, the train rapidly slows. Same as a thousand hands before me, God only knows. Each grip before me an untraceable contaminate. Now my face is itching, the scratch will have to wait. Forbid the horror intrusion of an invasive pandemic. Forbid its virulence, forbid the slowly rising panic. I arrive at work and naturally I will wash my hands. I scratched on the way in, should I change my plans? (Written by Loot and read by Lorraine Ansell)

'Train Fodder' The brash bloke in the carriage, loudly apologises with a snigger. Excess baggage man, messily stuffing his face, taker, not a giver. The women of a certain age, states she is still not yet a changer. Hat man, where is Tonto? Does he think he is the Lone Ranger. Bawdy earplug, phone boy, if it wasn’t music, it would be reefer. Non-coupled, couple, looking at phones and pissing in the ether. Drunken city gent, all red faced and sweaty, a born again sleeper. Black clad Emo, menacing, hungry, haunted, like the grim reaper. Borderline recluse, stares blankly out of the window, solo dreamer. Babe in arms, hot and flustered, was silent, but is now a screamer. Conductor approaches, smell him before I see him, a real stinker. Nervous young man, not happy in his skin, a compulsive blinker. Paper reader, obvious needer, closing her eyes, is now sleeper. My reflection in glass, intently watching all, oh no, I am peeper. (Written by Loot and read by Lorraine Ansell) https://organisationalpoetry.com/2017/09/26/train-fodder/