She sits in café’s,
Drinking cappuccinos and bickering
With the lawyer on her speed dial.
Watches the world go by
As she consumes her daily dose of politics
From the shiny music maker in her pocket.
It fits smugly in,
Presses against her pale skin,
Which smothered and trapped cries out
To feel sweet air upon it’s pores.
She glides carelessly (or so she seems)
Between the glaring buildings.
Head in the clouds,
She longs to be like the skyscrapers that dominate
The green parks.
The weeping willows weep
Longer and harder, craving the sun.
They long to see the golden glow
of anything but her hair dye.
She’ll stare at works of art,
And puzzle at their meaning,
Wait until it’s time for the cinema screening.
Empty time will pass as she checks her designer watch,
‘Oh’ she thinks, ‘It’s nice to be cultured’.
Want more? We recommend Class
Nah, time for Prose
Go back to Issue 2