The man in the beige raincoat opposite
has his nose in a book.
He pulls on a frown,
and then puts it down,
finger in spine:
it can’t be that good.
The girl in the black and white cheques
is captured in hers.
Chin buried in scarf,
she grins, then a laugh
hops out,
not unnoticed,
and she shrinks back to silence.
The man picks it up
and fingers the next page
and peers at the last,
which he read much too fast:
in a moment it’s back on his lap.
But the girl, she is rapt,
and her hair, straight and black,
sways right and left,
like a clock pendulum,
not counting the time
nor the miles.