Bus-station

What d’you reckon? Am I
just another stupid woman
trying to write on the train
trying to transcend
its lurches and rocks and sways
as it makes up for its delay?
I love riding
on the train and the bus

and waiting in the bus-station,
so 70s, so grimy, with
ads for trouser drycleaning on the kiosk and
people either lounging or rushing and
the wind shifting on the oily roadway, that
under-the-pavement stale-diesel smell
and the toilet doors, information signs,
alphabetically-labelled platforms,
grippy floorstrips
that tell the braille-footed blind where to wait,
and help the rest of us
not to slip.

But I never slip in my workboots.
D’you want a slippy little chick in a mini and stilettos
with much hair above
and none below
or d’you want a mouthful of a woman in black jeans and workboots
whose pubic hair is the uncut version
but whose head hair lengthens
the handshakes of dykes?

I know a few sexual tricks —
I could write you some porn —
How she liked it, oh she liked it
just the way it was
No enlargements necessary
How your hardons were monuments
to her traincrash desire
How she hung her stolen prayer flags
on the totem pole of your cock
How she so wanted you —
Yeah, you, with your bus-station face
and your bomb-threat hair
and your third-rail larynx
and your baggage

What do you think?