Leicester Station

A locomotive creeping under the mosque:
“Great, that’s two sixties”
a boy voice flings.

Clattering mutterings are overwhelmed
by the sharp aria of fiddled coins,
applause from a crisp packet.

The waiting room is as silent as breathing:

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

Busy, so feminine legs,
remind me,
and loneliness brushes through.

poem

90-96

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