Glass Doors

I could see through the wired-glass panel
of the wooden, hinged door of my school train
the face of a class-mate coming.
After I pushed, it whooshed closed behind me.

My holidaying children would race to open
the half-metal, half-glass, sliding doors
between carriages, pulling each alloy handle
like muscle-building barmen serving pints.

Rumbling, the doors slid neatly out of sight.
Ultra-modern trains have all-electric doors;
lights surprise you, flashing on around
large plastic buttons inviting you to press to 'OPEN';
You can see through all-glass compartment doors
if other passengers are about to press too.
The glass glides aside with a whisper.

Walking through the Manchester train
to find my reserved seat,
I am confronted by a button, shining yellow.
I press it expecting the glass door to withdraw.
Nothing happens.
My way is stopped by an invisible barrier.

I press again, doubtfully - electronic gadgets
do not change their minds.
Frustrated, panic wetting my brow;
my back pierced by eyes in the impatient queue;
dimly seeing the clean grey carpet I long to tread
between the rows of seated passengers;
embarrassment reddening my neck and face,
I press the glowing button yet again,
but with no hope of movement.
I am at a loss
defeated by technology.

Suddenly a voice drifts to my dulled ears:
"The door's open mate."
Incredulous, I take a step -
               through space -
                       to freedom.

                                                              Michael Davidson
                                                              Jan '04