Her lipstick melts, a ripened peach
It’s smeared across her moulded teeth
Which colour words of stuttered speech
And mimics ink on backs of seats

Her bones are frail her posture boughs
Under plastic fur lined clothes
Her back’s a C about to close
That battles with her gracious pose

Bus lanes offer little grace
Just kindly hands that offer space
That pride will shun with calm distaste
Though ankles pulse and toenails break

When they danced he held her tight
They’d glide on rails in starlit flight
She now just sways at traffic lights
With yellow poles and knuckles white

I wonder if in eras lost
I’d fall for Grace’s graceful frost
But time makes lovers, strangers of
We part as such at Charing Cross

© Copyright Dean Stephenson 2014