To a thin woman

You stood in the rain at Clyde station,

a doll streaming make-up

but the blue under your eyes

was bruising.

You sat against a window,

a painted smile cracking your face

pretending to read a newspaper,

vomited on the floor,

didn’t want to make a scene.

            You seem to be going somewhere

            probably hung over

            you smell

            you’re dirty and battered

            it’s your life

            I won’t speak

You got off at my station

I asked if you were OK.

            My keys, locked in, the agent, no money,

            could you lend me five dollars

            for my methadone?

as you hobbled down the steps

and were sick again.

            It’s the tablets.

I followed you to the clinic

but somewhere on the way

you became very small

and disappeared down a crack

in a wet side street