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'.
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