Shark fin heels cut swathes through the aisle,
Flexing her thighs wide as a smile,
Stretching her tights cos that’s just the style,
To dress up your floating logs as crocodiles.
Slumping in seats, languidly lazing,
The taut, dark brown fabric gradually fading
Through phases, thinning from day after day
Without changing. Her knee caps are
Straining beneath a drab cream
That’s just itching to burst.
Oblivious, mother hen is hatching her purse,
Casually cradled, craftily able to
Explore all her things,
iPhone, lipstick and gold plated hoop earrings.
She coughs into a cardigan, politely hiding her germs,
But a hand is preferred when manners are learned,
A vicious hacking bark has dislodged her perm,
And it feels like a corner might just have been turned.
She re-fluffs her tresses to make sure they fall right,
Palms down the creases on the dress she wore last night
Tries to put on her makeup under the right light,
Steady hand, steady wrist,
Checks her phone, what’s she missed?
She looks disappointed,
Forlorn and let down:
The 3G signal is feeble,
Because we’re a mile underground.