I often watch this woman on the train:
a specimen self-confident and fat,
of middle height, with features blunt and plain,
in jeans and flannel daily. Topping that
her hair hangs long and bottle-blonde, still damp
from her shampoo. Around her puffy wrist
there peeks a rose tattoo, and like a lamp
vermillion her thin lips cannot be missed.

She sits beside the doors. She doesn’t read.
She meets nobody’s eyes as she commutes.
Her posture is erect and open-kneed –
a massive passenger in purple boots.
She doesn’t know she’s out of shape. She’s in
the game and brandishing some lovely skin.