My poem The Tracks can be found in this collection.
Some nights are too cold for stilettos
One platform and icy concrete
No place here to drink white coffee
Two young girls on metal benches
Sit and watch their make-up smudging
Sharing fags and passing lighters
Hair back-brushed to reach the sky
And fishnets tearing cautiously
Around their scabbing, bloody knees.
Girls dressed up and looking pretty
High-heeled boots and lip-gloss
Sticky to the touch
From magazines where centrefolds
Hide teenage dreams
Of being oh so pretty, oh so sexy, oh
At age thirteen.
Girls who know a touch they shouldn’t
Girls with lips stitched under lipstick
Girls who hate and judge each other
Girls who wish it started different.
Watch the lights now flashing red,
The whiny sound of loud alarm
The train is speeding up ahead,
But there’s no screech of brakes
Instead, the girls are waiting on the tracks,
Grasping tightly clammy hands,
Prepared to cause a small disruption
Garbled overhead announcements.
Tutting customers impatient
Waiting for the cleaning up of
Scummy skin and toxic waste
Will undoubtedly think them selfish.