Hopeful Ladies
In rows, feet pressed into tight black shiny shoes
What they want, evreyone knows, shivering imposters
Thinking they are visitors, to the sublimely indifferent
Poetaster, dilettante, man of letters, Satchmo trumpet
Disembarks the first of them, a blonde with meaning
Opens the door and enters, the others open their handbags
In unison and snap them shut, and cross their legs
In Freudian camaraderie, except they are enemies
In the office, time corrodes the mantel clock
He is the fictional cigar-roller, take down merchant
Yes I’ll do it , hoardings howl in streets
Composed of padded leather, where is my dinner?
At home husbands cry and wither
Whilst the ladies suck on Polos
Hoping for a better dose of oral mystery
He’s someone, going upwards, catch him
Before he disappears…
5 pm – they all go home.
Veronica Aldous 2016 All rights reserved
