• Your neighbourhood poet

THE OTHER SIDE

He sees only the pricked-apart seam in my dress,

The tangle of sun-swept foil on the seat. Remains

Of pussy-footed privilege, a child of constant rebirth.

We live in two worlds, separated by a wall

Of silver-misted glass. Our eyes never meet; yet

I know his figure of patent porcelain, trapped

Between layers of scalding waxwork and uneasy heat,

Flames cradling in shame the flint-hardened sound

Of winter’s harshest wail. The streets cleansed of barest dust,

Then turned to living ice. I watch him leave, silent, unheeding,

Alone amidst the madness of the frieze. The green of signal refrain

Carries me away from the glare of guilt in his steeple-sunk eyes,

And an even heavier heart.

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