The Way Back From Therapy Poem by Richard George

Six o'clock, each Tuesday
he brushed through the forest
to his freezing fen of Thameslink.
Down the grey escalade
she'd march five minutes later:
a Nicola in a business suit.
His fresh heart went out to her.

His medication made him ooze
salt and lard: 'Swinish! '
stung her mustard Selfridges bag,
her sneer of meat to his calf's eyes.
When she stepped off at Mill Hill, his gaze
stretched to her silhouette's
'I know your kind'.