The sleepy fog of travelling 

Is wrenched away so quick

Standing in the aisle behind

A young woman, pale and sick

 

She’s shouting at her phone

and at any unwitting glance

Her hard face glares in fury.

No one gets a second chance

 

Around her people try to ignore

the live circus on display.

And busy themselves with anything

to make it go away.

 

She stumbles forward towards the door

her Aldi bag in shreds

And trips and falls spectacularly 

Its contents widely spread.

 

Scratchie cards and cigarettes 

empty Woodstock’s, some rings

black silk panties plus a lighter.

A sad collection of things.

 

In a world of dodgy friends, poverty and pay day loans.

It saps her life completely 

with the confronting and unknown.

 

On every crease upon her face 

On every home-made tatt.

those rebellious days still haunt her

but she is now done with all that.

 

Try as she might to change

There is no mortal way

To escape the vicious cycle

That repeats for her each and every day.

 

Because the face, the skin and body 

hold her steadfast in the place

by those who judge and write her off.

From their comfortable middle-class race.

 

Smugly they feel above it all.

Never mind their own woes

Of alcohol and desperation 

And their children they do not know.

 

But the truth is there in black and white.

Of where life’s road can turn

with one bad day, a few missed bills 

and suddenly you’re alone.

 

The world’s an unforgiving place so she takes pleasure where she can. 

It’s not her fault that she is..

a forgotten also ran.

 

Try as you might, nothing can defeat this woman’s sorry tale.

That plays out so predictably.

On Friday’s V’/Line from Sale.