lank-haired, green-shoed, in a flesh-coloured plastic mac,
red skirt and gingham shirt, the patchwork woman
drifts past me to the crossing on my right.
A skirl of brakes attracts my eye. She stands
half way across the road, stock-still. Her hands
hang at her sides, her face is calm but her eyes
betray her. There, in a navy blue sedan,
throttle revving, sits a modern man:
mid-thirties, wearing matching suit and tie
and haircut. Angry, staring, hurried, late,
he grips the wheel and mutters liquid hate.
The car strains like the pole car on the grid
but still she stands and, with a frightened smile,
mouths “Thank you” and then shuffles on her way,
not seeing what her gratitude just did -
for he has melted and is smiling too.
His eyes pursue her as she wanders through
the shoppers in her pink, distinctive mac;
never looking back.
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