In the train station of Westbury I sit on metal bench.
Corrugated iron rooves protect me from the wet.
Industrialism has forgotten this town; I notice as the rain gets loud.
Trains pass by not only carrying people, but mounds of stones too, nothing lethal.
I go to check the cafe for a drink; it's getting cold out now.
A queue awaits as I enter the room so I join in with the crowd.
One drops off, then another too 'til I am left alone to queue.
A plain girl (pretty too) asks my order - time to choose.
Looks like my mother was right, train station prices have taken flight.
"A coffee that will be for me", I smile and say, grabbing 1.70.
I place it in the palm of her hand; she smiles at me before saying "thanks".
A way behind sits the coffee machine and so to that she tends.
A workers girl in a workers town, how's that for amends?
Down I sit filling empty chair, strangely uncomfortable with
Conditioned air; my coffee was bought to provide me warmth
So why sit, hardly cold, indoors?
The indicated pad is pressed and doors slide open, allowing my step,
Toward a better atmosphere, though colder I could hardly care.
Westbury is a one-stop place, stay too long and you'll lose the race.
So just bare with any forty minute wait, soon enough, you'll be on your way.