Long, serpentine meeting
of on-the-spot impatient feet
mingled perfume of shampoo, cigarettes and heat
shimmying an inch here and there
in obeyance to the rule of queue
adherence to the beat
fleeting friendships sail by
and the have-to-be-noticed vie for attention,
decibels held aloft in a strongman stance.
The more timid risk a glance at their neighbour
then pretend to look anywhere else
if eyes lock for a moment with the next
droplets of conversation like “Did I feel rain?
Maybe not.”
“I am not a tree hugger” says the new woman in a floaty dress. “But I
want to hug that one, hold the bark to my breast.”
The oak beyond the window ignores her request.
“I went to school with his uncle’s cousin,” states the bearded man
while gesticulating wildly, gathering all the attention he can from the
slow moving snake,
the audience of the servile shudder in his wake.
Oh, we are taking three steps forwards, no two
a woman of a certain, assured sultry age
makes moves on a young man who is flattered
enough to perhaps engage for the life of the line anyway,
brief encounter for the those who cannot be even moments alone,
oh please prove that I am lovely,
insecurity prone.
A child says what we may all think;
“This is boring, why can’t we go home?”
Rachel Blake is a bit of an allsort; she enjoys making art, writing, baking, and challenging and protesting against policies that punish, stigmatize and isolate the more vulnerable. She manages (well, mostly) a complex and chronic mental health condition.
