The dark fur of yesterday's bedsheets has gone
The oder and scratch marks have melted with the ice
That pecks my cheeks like a pleasant and pointless date
As I walked to the train today
My first one of one hundred mornings in the dark
Trying to work out a little light
Trying to catch a glimpse of something to smile at
Like the pretty girl who's sitting opposite me
In pink scarf and matching earmuffs
Little does she know that she's my initial muse
Staring, engrossed in the Metro's pages
Perhaps she's simple
No, my mistake, another glance and it's a book
Not a good one though by the looks of it
Daily Mail gave it five stars
Either Mein Kampf or the Bible then
No, it's trash fiction
But if it brightens up her smile like a day at the beach
Who am I to comment on such things?
If it lifts her mind and thoughts
Interfering with real troubles by means of ethereal thoughts
I can't judge a book by its cover after all
I can't judge her because in a moment I shall do likewise
But with a classic of course because I'm pretentious
(well, I am a poet you know)
So on these red seats in the black air of mornings in december
In sickly creams and hookers' blues
She flicks each page with grace and intelligence
She smiles once or twice, just being happy
Contented radiation over the announcements of Egham and Staines
And with a guard's whistle and a train's grumble
I find my first reason to smile
There really is nothing like a dame.
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