Glances
That face
In the sea of humanity,
Like the poppy
In a bed of pansies
Strikes out
With its red
And the stigma
Protrudes black.
The bobcut of her hair,
Neat and clean
As they come;
Quarrelling with the ears
At each nod or turn.
Those eyes throwing glances,
On the pavements she stands;
Waiting for the bus.
And then
She rides away.
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