Tracks…

The train home from London to Yorkshire,
Used to be exciting:
First time back from college,
Bringing the college girlfriend home,
Returning to see newborn babies
And finally back with my wife,
Though grandma preferred the college love
And told the wife so. She took it well.

But now it’s a chore,
A reminder of a past no longer mine.
Yet by some fluke of blood
I’m still related to them:
The gamblers, the never-left-towns,
The alcoholic brother
Overkeen to follow his father’s
Stumblings into the drunkard’s grave.

Little bruv, of course, has done well.
The slick sales patter
That talked a thousand knickers into surrender,
It’s now made him a wealthy contender.
Nice car, nice house, nice kids
When he could have hit the skids.
And now he even earns more than me.
The shit.

Of course, there was a time
I was close to my kin,
Keen as mustard to do the right thing.
Not so much now though...
Because like stops on a Tube
Distance happens in stages
And now I rarely call, haven’t written in ages.
We’re just too far apart on the tracks…