There are some things I see everyday
Which never get old.
There’s a smoking bus driver who hasn’t learned the year we’re in.
Moustache of steady.
Bald men of shadows, who I have to call human
And the woman in my office, who insists on
Using euphemisms, ‘dirty’, ‘loon’ and ‘passed on’.
I could never imagine her having a conversation
With the 38 year old goth assistant in the shopping centre,
One with the purple hair.
Depressed. I hope not. Born in 1974, she’s had the chance to get out,
And her mummy had already gone
By the time I came along in ’91.
I think she saw my eyes through the glass wall,
Customer and stranger.
There’s a lady I know, she ever gets old
Probably has a depth I can’t access
But she studies to be a professor in gender
And gives her daughter fairy boots and braids
The eyeliner of separation.
She can’t disguise the shape of her face
Anymore than the tree needs a haircut
Dampening the world with chemicals.
I don’t need anyone to tell me
That the smell of god is the must of empty halls,
And the hormones of the minister
Who is sexy for my soul.
It might’ve taken a while
But such things don’t surprise me