Time Traveller
The girl on the underground is a sartorial time traveller.
Navy high waisted pencil skirt tightens over her ripened bottom,
blue pinstripe shirt, demurely buttoned up to the collar,
sets her rocket breasts on a youthful trajectory.
Despite the carriage’s bumper car jolting, she balances on
death defying stilettos like an accomplished trapeze artist.
Although her Siamese cat’s eyes peep out through letter box
spectacles and her harvest of blonde hair is gathered into a generous bun,
this girl is not waiting to be transformed
in a ‘Why you are beautiful Miss Jones’ revelation,
because like Marilyn in that dress,
she is more erotic in her 50s costume
than standing stark naked on the tube.
Yet there are no Sid James remarks from the suited men,
builders in dusty denims and youths in shorts,
who surrounded by casual girls oozing flesh
like a gallery of Reuben’s nudes, stare only at her and pant.
