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.