Late for dinner - A London poem for London people

Whilst on my way into the City,
Tarted up and looking pretty,
I was anxious to get to my dinner date
With the man of my dreams
(Didn’t want to be late).
But halfway to my destination
The loudspeaker at the railway station
Announced the central line was down
And was not running into town
Because some bloke, who was insane,
Had jumped before a moving train.

I didn’t care much he’d met his end,
Just annoyed I’d be late to see my friend.
I observed the vast teeming shoals of commuters
With briefcases and laptop computers
All as visibly vexed as I felt inside
About the wretch’s suicide:
It was all that crazy idiot’s fault
That London had screamed to a grinding halt.
He’d clearly not thought of the consequences
Of his caper, when he’d taken leave of his senses.
How perfectly thoughtless to end his life
In so public a manner. The man’s son and his wife
Had not yet received word that their loved one was gone:
They were sitting at home with the TV set on
Wond’ring why he was late, with no inklings or clues
Until they had seen a report on the news.
I had been so concerned with my own trivial plight
I’d not thought that a child lost his father tonight.

As I got my skirt wet when I hailed down a taxi,
His broken cadaver was plucked from the tracks, he
Was carefully lifted, his jacket in tatters,
By ambulance men, careful not to get spatters
Of blood on the uniforms. They all thought how touching
It was to see his bleeding fingers still clutching
A blood-sodden photo of his dearest wife
With her son on her knee. She’d been his world, his life.
And he couldn’t believe that she’d had an affair,
That some other man had run his hands through her hair
And had dared to kiss her lips of soft pink silk satin.
Visions of her haunted him and he thought that in
Just a brief instant he could end all his pain.
He would not have to suffer for her love again.

I finally got to Sloane Square for my date
Feeling flustered and angry that I’d arrived late.
Once I’d kissed the object of my affections,
The epitome of celestial perfection,
He said the sole reason he wanted me there
Was just to confess that he’d had an affair.