Nurse at a Bus Stop
The slow traffic takes a good long look.
Jilted bride of public transport,
alone in the shelter,
the fireproof bin and shatter-proof glass
scrawled with the cave-art of cocks and hearts.
It’s late, Friday, the graveyard shift, you’re ready
to dab blood from a split lip,
to hold the hand of cancer till the line goes flat.
Cardigan, sensible shoes, the kids
with a neighbour, fobwatch pinned
like a medal to your breast.
Winter sharpens the day.
The centuries crawl past,
none of them going your way.