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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.

(c) 1999 Dylan Harris

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