The Virgin train bound for Glasgow

Pulls out of London’s Euston station

It’s the day after the London Marathon

The train is packed 

Luckily we had reserved seats 

Passengers carrying marathon memorabilia 

The spectators are mostly fat and middle aged

Young thin men in sweat pants are obvious participants

Returning home to resume their routine life

After their 3 hours and 22 minutes of fame

What stories will they tell back at work tomorrow?

Perhaps all has been said via social media

Aching muscles twitched all over twitter

Tired faces painted all over FaceBook

Crossing the finishing line in an instant instagram

Hardly any spoken conversation on the train

Thumbs are stabbing away on phones

Digits digitizing details to distant dudes

High speed internet on a high speed train

The passengers are just captive internet traffickers

“Would ye like a drank”

Said the lady hostess in a broad Glaswegian accent

Stunned passengers looked up from their phones

Rudely woken from the silence of cyberspace

“Red wine please” was the unanimous response

Internet surfers refueled with alcohol

As the train speeds relentlessly north

The buildings of the city soon replaced by cultivated fields

Rape seed crops rape your eyes with bright yellow

Do the farmers wear sunglasses I wonder

The digital marathon internet warriors started to fade

Maybe they still surf while napping

Brains wired to Bluetooth transmitters

Redundant thumbs unused

Future generations will be limbless

Marathons will all have virtual runners

Spectators will be bathed in virtual reality at home

No need to travel to any events

Trains will sit in rusty graveyards

Retired Glaswegian hostesses will drink red wine at home