I saw you crossing the road
oblivious to the passing eyes
who are blind to you.
Hooped shirt stained and pulled
and bag hung awkwardly, ungainly
you walk home.

Who will welcome a makeweight,
called to fill a space?
No fashionably tousled hair,
no accessory girl at the side;
mud and tiredness as companions
on your way home.

Eyes fixed forward, you step
onto the kerb with a look
of age beyond your years.
There will be no hero’s return
for no-one is there
when you get home.