A couple twist on a bench on the station
platform: he bends and holds her foot in his hand,
cleaning her shoe. She turns her body from his
ministrations, arms folded, furious. They do not speak.
I wonder for a while, invent their story.
Then tire, and start to think of crumpets with honey.
If you have any comments on this poem, Maggie Butt would be pleased to hear from you.