Day Centre
She flicks through the paper, her pinching face
in defiance of the girl who would not wear
flat white shoes, nor cast a glancing smile
as he lays the tray aside. We wither behind glass
from the dampened world of true colour.
Wither with the clattering teacups washed
in the chatter of the kitchen. This place
is clean as the fluttering knife buttering
buns and stottie cakes. Drenched in signs
warning of steps and stairs.
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