Moorgate To Temple, Circle Line
There is a man sitting opposite
In a red and black striped shirt.
His eyes are a little mincey
And his forehead frowns
Of its own accord.
He smells a bit like Christmas.
He is not a summer man.
He is married.
His wedding day was happy,
Many friends attended.
He was young and now he is old
And the wedding ring grows inwards
As the wrinkles expand.
His hair is thinning.
When he looks in the mirror
He is a little shocked.
But his infant depression
Is distracted by the smell of autumn
Leaves outside.
He is going to a lover,
He has that pretence about him.
But his hands betray some intelligence
Which his small and wonky nose destroys.
The best thing is
That he has no idea
I am writing this.
I don’t like his shoes.
I will stop now.
It seems awfully mean.
Copyright © Frances Scott | Year Posted 2008
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