Untitled

by Poppy Garrett

It started with a car. A queue; a sigh
burning rubber on the tarmac. Screeeeching to a halt.
A slip of the lip, a cuss and she’s gone.
There’s a hat made of fur. A hat, tied at the chin
smushing a girl between its cheeks. “The bus was late,” she lisps.
Laughter. Then Chaucer, and the demise of the pen with the pink ink.

After lunch, it snows. They fall
fearlessly, weightlessly, hopelessly.
Then there’s silence.

It ended with a car. Cars,
prowling, sighing, dragging threads of smoke.
The pavements are wet, and evening begins.