This is the pole
That centres our dance
On a white-knuckle ride,
A meeting by chance.
We stand, disconnected, always looking down,
Swaying together under the ground.
Closer than lovers, breath in my face;
A zipless encounter that we’ll soon erase.

Absorbed in our phones
We glide to our homes
Past oystercard zones
And adverts for loans –
Our fingers meet, chance-like
Our gazes slip, trance-like
The lightning connection
The foreign inflection;
No dangerous smile,
No risk of rejection.

Holding ourselves in complete isolation,
Blanking blank faces at every station.
The pole stands between us, keeping us straight
Where hundreds before us held on;
It’s hardly the moment to ask for a date:
Mind the gap, it’s time to move on.