I popped out on saturday night to pick up some drinks for friends and found myself caught up in the crowd for Kylie. I watched two thirty-something year old women doing cartwheels outside Victoria station, giggling away like they were teenagers again. This poem is for them:
For two women waiting outside Victoria station on a Saturday night.
You share cigarette smoke chatter, under
train station canopies and practise cartwheels
on the gravel. Under glowstick Manchester
sky you change into comfy shoes, tossing
neon purple high heels with dismissive regal
hands. There is electric blue air dancing,
sparking, swaggering around and fractured
disco ball glisten spotlights dancefloor puddles.
A couple embrace under departure board green,
threatening their children with further displays;
you giggle a fifteen year old girl's giggle,
twenty years in waiting; polish off plastic
glass of wine and walk on, leaving no trace,
but a single slippered heel.