She stank of piss, and had whiskers.
Three cat’s whiskers thrusting from a crusty mole
On her chin, and her hair was thin,
Wispy like sheep’s wool caught on barbed wire fencing
On a hillside, where once she met
A soldier at a bus stop and he gave her cigarettes.
Or so she said with watery eyes,
Whilst routing for coins in a plastic purse with shaking
Fingers and thick yellow nails.
Would you like a bag for this I said glancing at the title –
Now Is The Hour. No thanks,
I’ll put it in my trolley. See you again love, take care.