the lights have all turned red   on holloway road   a pale vision of inertia   in cold halogen glow      the last clapham bound train   is waiting to leave   but the engine-driver's fallen   asleep at the wheel      when i picked up the phone   my hopes were put on hold   the outgoing wires were humming   my heart was growing cold      no rattling of keys   no break before the dawn   i still wait for my relief   what's taking him so long?