Reading Station- a Poem

 I have written a poem, my first in over a decade. As you know, I am primarily a prose writer and poetry does not come naturally to me; however, the idea for a poem popped into my head a couple of days ago, and it stayed there. As a result, I decided the best course of action was to write it.
 

Reading Station
by Ben Emlyn-Jones
 
I buy my ticket. An off-peak single to Normality, standard class of course.
Jacob's Escalators boost me to the concourse.
Carotene timetables scroll like a waterfall.
The blazing sun is filtered through frosted safety glass.
The corrugated steel carapace above relays the heat.
The ski jump roof longs for snow.
Schwab's children surround me, socially distancing by a million light-years.
Their shuffling feet scuff on the baking sauna stones of platform 9.
"Yes, we own nothing and we definitely are happy!" Pod dwellers. Bug eaters.
They hold their mobile phones like prayer books, staring into the abyss of the display.
Trains. Conveyors of human cargo. They glide in and out like spoilt debutantes. Sliding along the steel contrails without engines or brakes.
No pistons or whistles, no romance. They just warble like tropical birds as they accelerate.
Sliding doors decant the herd like cheese wire. People flow in and out like pools of oil.
 
I am alone.
I turn my head to the right. She is gone.
I can no longer feel that warm soft pebble beside me, that used to nourish and comfort me.
Right now I'd give anything to hear her laugh again, to smile at me, to brush my hand with hers, to speak to me gently.
She used to run her hands through her hair. Her skin was so soft and pale.
I miss her.
I have arrived from another world. Nobody can see how alien I am, but I can feel it. Talking to me would reveal my strangeness, but without a moment of understanding.
I could never describe the place I have come from.
 
I walk into WH Smith.
Newspaper headlines shriek from stands. We should be scared of the sun.
There is no summer or winter anymore, just heatwaves and superstorms.
My train arrives and I board.
The cabin smells of soap. The seats prickle where my skin is sweating.
Oxford is so close that I'm on a moveable bridge.
I yearn to flee. I can't face what I always have faced.
But then I look down and smile.
My ticket is actually a return.