Eyes slide from mine.
Her hat is a touch of Christmas
a bold dash of holly red,
amid the grays and blacks of July
conservatism.
She sits, knowing every masculine eye
is turned in her direction
Reflected in the night dark glass
of sightless windows
she sneaks a surreptitious glance
Amused I grin
She lets half her smile escape
then retreats to
Chemistry by Zumdahl
(Third edition)
Mister Latino in the corner
sprawls with feet upon the seat
rubbing his big gold crucifix
between hairy backed fingers
Chatting up an unseen girl
on his yellow mobile
He’s loud, rude, uncouth
face all fake animation.
I wonder if she’s real
Next stop Normanhurst!
I scurry down the platform
Collar up against the wind.