Start of a poem putatively called 'The comfort of railway stations'

Under high stucco ceilings,
we're stifling over ham and eggs
in the cafe at Budapest Keleti.
We've only just arrived
among American students,
festival-goers whose luminescent wristbands
evangelise this stock-shot gathering
in an otherwise vacant ticket hall.
The connection for the Trans-Siberian
flick-flacks on the departure board.