Rides passenger, timidly, her bag
in her lap. Inspector’s fingers tip the
wheel of the Merc, they are off to Aldi,
where she is positioned on weekday mornings.
Socks under open-toed wedge sandals in winter,
she shifts crushed velvet skirts and headscarf into
the wind’s place. Bites her cheeks, those smoother
than Inspector’s, they show no lines, none of the pock
marks of power he collects. Vacant, her dolorous eyes’
sheen of tears a conceit for shine, brighter than the
snaggle-toothed skinny aunts, who’s round at the church.
Here is better business; they giver her nappies for her little
brothers, and food. She hides it from Inspector; he watches
sometimes from beyond tinted windows. Crowds of stick
legged indolence, hungover students cover her in swathes.