Her skin may need an iron’s once over,
Its pigment is brash and fuchsia.
But she smiles more than she did back then,
So why bother with that cosmetic nonsense?
Her day’s dictated by today’s timetable.
‘Lost’ doesn’t exist, ‘it’s adventure’, she insists.
Quarter to the hour, or ten past,
The maze of her head, sign-posted by
A free seat (complimentary, if that teenage scoundrel
gives up his.)
She’s a first-class voyager, companion to her wooden aid,
Clutched tightly like a hand to hold.
She has a favourite chauffer, but their presence is
Young enough to be her grandson,
But pretty eyes all the same.
Today’s audience don’t quite meet her gaze,
‘sorry for your loss,’
Something she can’t quite place.
Maybe she’s just forgotten her keys.