Suzanne Day: Train Tides

imagine Flinders Street Station underwater; clocks stop bars close and as you dive into the entrance schools of supriseyed passengers swim past clutching briefcases, neckties streaming

there are no loudspeakers,
no tickets to be had
from the rusty Metcard machines
plastic bags hover like jellyfish
and a businesswomen's daffodil hair
flows blue and unperfumed

people bubble down dead escalators
past the NO SMOKING signs
to see watermarked schedules
where trains aren't

and on the tracks
a stingray
flutters grey
while the stationmaster
wastes useless, salty words
on fare evaders