A poem from a document entitled ‘responses to creative prompts’. The ‘prompt’ is lost to history. Written 13 March 2015.
Just after Five on a Friday
Polyester slips swollen with air,
make skirts flap like kites, their pleats tugged skyward.
Below the horizon of skirts
legs the colour of milk and tobacco,
Stand in clumps.
Leaves and gutter-sludge
morph the Marks and Spencer loafers,
cling to the snapped stiletto.
I watch wisps of hair
The local newspaper flops among the pedestrians,
dodging the edge of the footpath,
a headline intermittently declaring a recent deluge of rain.
The footpath is mottled with stains,
of yesterday’s puddles.
Beyond the bent heads, the umbrellas stowed under arms,
the squashed butts and whirling gum wrappers,
is the warm interior of a bus,
a mottled seat in burgundy,
a patchwork of roads winding out of the city,
a number 15 bus stop,
and a sunset.