the scoop of her neck. A panic attack on the bus.
Her old wool gloves have acquired
an entirely new shape, reminiscent of dead birds.
The bus hisses to a halt. She can smell already
a wreck of overstuffed ashtrays, clothes,
curled magazines. Dirty dishes left by the bed.
Here, the moon won’t go home in the morning,
swings it’s white eye to the pavement where a bag
keeps rolling about, small as a smacked gull.
Her phone trembles in her fist, brings her back
as she lifts the brass key, calls “Mam.”