Standard Procedure

I saw him standing in the rain,
Waiting for his London train,
His chin was shaved, his suit was new,
His flaws of stance and gait were few.

He entered the outbound express,
He sat, and stared at the public mess,
The burger of a child before,
Lay scattered, rotting on the floor.

A conductor steps through the carriage door,
Stamps two orange tickets more,
Approaches the man without a care,
And, for a moment, they both stare.

Not a word was said at all,
The whirring echoed through the sprawl,
And iron face, a neutral look,
He leaves, the man gets out a book.

He hides his face the whole way home,
Returns to an empty house alone,
Continues through his working years,
And hides his British social fears.