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.