She flaunted her quiet little lover,

Who made no fuss and took out the empties;

Hopped off the bus with a spring in his step

And provided the paradise she craved.

Her friends would say: ‘she looks so much better’.

But now he has left, she sits, immobile,

And when she moves, she spreads herself too thin,

Her cascade of tears moistening the street;

Bereft of all sympathy, except for

The ants, emerging from the pavement’s cracks.