The Girls

It’s Friday, and the sun is low:

I wanted to work but couldn’t,

so I picked up my pen

to write again.


Three women sat down in my foursquare seat,

two at Orpington and one at Petts Wood;

young and dressed.

I look up and my eyes meet

the one opposite

for a moment.


I turn and read and stare through the window

and turn half my thoughts to the day’s agenda

and spread my fingers

and look at my rings

and let them shine.


I stare again at the dusty pane

and snatch a reflection of eyes in mine.

What image of me?



I’m surrounded by her legs

caged like a lion and

taunted with the language of her body

a flirt that has no labels to say

how deep she runs

grabbing me across a gulf of decades as I start to writhe

and once more the power of her eyes pulls me in,

stabbing me with shame.