A locomotive creeping under the mosque:
“Great, that’s two sixties”
a boy voice flings.
Clattering mutterings are overwhelmed
by the sharp aria of fiddled coins,
applause from a crisp packet.
The waiting room is as silent as breathing:
pages sweep magazines,
weight strobes floorboards,
itches abandon throats.
Busy, so feminine legs,
and loneliness brushes through.