The Empty Train

The empty train crept down the track,
It slid into the station.
Eight coaches long, from front to back,
It raised our expectations.

It paused, then rolled reluctantly
Towards the eight-coach mark.
We raised our heads expectantly
But every coach was dark.

Unlit inside, unwashed outside,
A nightmare, not a dream,
The prospect of a grisly ride,
Unlike the age of steam.

It shuddered, squealed, then suddenly
It picked up speed once more,
And scorning us quite openly,
It opened not one door.

The people stood and watched it go
In silent resignation,
Their Monday morning spirits low –
Commuters know their station.