All Change

Stuart Beveridge

A woman, late-forties, platform four, running late.
Her Susan Boyle curls bop in time with her pace.

Flashes of fuchsia from
shocking pink socks,
echo the shade of her
reddening chops.

A man calls out to catch
her train or attention.
She glances, but doesn’t turn
as she boards, carries on

composing herself. She takes a seat.
Deep breaths of effort and beads of relief.
Inspecting the indent of a ring on her finger,
mops her brow and collects her thoughts.

 

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