Who needs snakes or Samuel J.

Jackson when you can bake

on a train,

a puddle on the floor with your D.N.A.

split and frying

like an egg on a car bonnet,

spitting feathers

for a moment’s release of an open door

and the rush for fresh-ish

air that comes tantalisingly in

as the rush for a seat to stick to is

uppermost in a puddle’s mind…

who needs snakes

or a hero to rescue you,

when all you need is a fan.