Leicester Station

A diesel creeping under the mosque:
"Great, that's two sixties"
another boy voice flings.

Arabic mutterings are replaced
by the sharp aria of fiddled coins,
with applause from a crisp packet.

The waiting room is as quiet
as a living dormitory:

pages sweep magazines,
weight strobes floorboards,
itches abandon throats.

Busy, still feminine legs
remind me of my circumstance,
and loneliness brushes through.