BROTHERHOOD OF MAN

                   Somewhere on the Circular Line

                   with a carriage-load of brothers

                   I stare at the Car Cards

                   and try to avoid the other eyes.

                   Each man is a species,

                   I say to myself,

                   or at least a genus,

                   until he is introduced

                   or has some excuse for breaking the silence.

                   Madness ,

                   I suppose,

                   must really be sanity,

                   for if I were to extend my animal warmth

                   towards my carriage mates,

                   if I were to go up to one

                   and nuzzle and stroke,

                   if I were even to meet an anxious eye

                   with a smile,

                   what could be saner?

                   'He's mad ,'

                   they'd say,

                   'he's mad.

                   He's acting like an animal:

                   he ought to be certified!'