BUSHMILLS IN BUS STATION
Her hair's so black, the blue is breaking through.
Centre-parted with furrow crown to fore,
Perfectly placed and kept in position
As pretty red ribbons bind the bunches.
Her face is crazed and tanned to leather.
Too many benders on Benidorm beach.
Her mouth is creased, possibly from decades
Of dragging long and hard on king-size tipped.
But her lips: Aah! A work of art in crimson.
Today she wears a short-sleeve summer frock.
Floral pattern with red to match her lippy.
Her batwings flap-flop like Labrador ears.
Her small white socks sit snug in hiking boots.
She is the little girl in the old lady.
Time corrupts. Her comfort, her addiction.
After her tour of town she sidles off
To swig Bushmills on a bus-station bench.
Guess who must help to carry her back home.
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