In Bus Station, now renamed, Transport Interchange
crazies herd, or stud on Friday night,
past disguised as fresh and new.
Filly’s Seventies platform throwback
high heels whipcrack and totter
past and shoutback,
“Can’t get enough!”, to the stallions.
Hormones on an after school
high josh one another into minor
crimes their pot bellies
will chuckle at when they’re pastured.
Big yellow hi viz “club bouncer”
jackets tap their ear phones
and watch the younger
good spirits rise, ready to corral a stampede.
A thin bright yellow hi viz jacket
pushes a blue plastic hygiene cart
whose white wheels clop on tiles
recall wooden clogs on sodden cobbles.
A crazy talks to himself
as he trots by, his eyes elsewhere
and then I see the leads
from the buds in his ears.
Young stud tucks his blue boxers
into his jeans waist below
his haunches, a US prison trend,
and old fashion now.
Yoga panted fillies giggle
at his shorts, as they, too
will blush at fashions sworn by
in their galloped youth.
And older some afford pasture,
others to the knacker’s yard,
and clothes no longer second hand,
or charity but sold as “vintage”.