He hurries through the city streets

    As sprightly as a flea

 And turns into the station yard

    For the seven fifty three.

 

He settles in his corner seat

    With newspaper on knee.

It’s every day the same routine

    On the seven fifty three.

 

He never speaks, he never looks,

    And doesn’t notice me.

When he gets off, where does he go

    From the seven fifty three?

 

How does he spend his working hours?

     What does he do and see?

Who thinks of him, who shares his life –

       Mr Seven 53?

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Copyright on all my poems

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Who can spot a simile in this poem?  Josie     

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Similes​​​​

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