Archway Post Office

‘Excuse me,’ the woman in the blood-red-cotton-
jersey-synthetic mess of a unioned-uniform shirt
stopped. The package, her hand.

The distance of none.

‘Were you always a cunt, or did you just turn
into one when the menopause hit?’

Package snatched back. From hers to hers.

A smile, a wave, a twirl.

Exit left, worker stayed right

Customer served the smile.
What service.

9 May 2017

The girls, looking younger and thinner.
My hair’s still dark, but at what cost?

Did it start as blonde?
When did it fade away?

Embolden not by drinks but lust-

Dublin I was–
–‘That’s where I’m from’.
From the north I called home and
you nodded along.

The girl-os, they’ve left,
I alone saw their heels go.

My eyes they stayed blue,
but maybe that’s how my hair stayed dark.
Embittered and jealous
by those whom I scarcely knew.