On a good day I’ll remember my mask
after I’ve shut the door
go back inside for it and realise
the sun pushes lace and leaf
shadows around my daughter’s room
toys spread carefully
on a good day
I’ve spent an hour or two forgetting
I’ll need a mask if we go out there.
I stand for the woman whose feet
strain at the straps of her shoes
stare daggers at the snorer
slumped in priority seats.
The 7.17 chorus tells
of a recent Greek wedding
her brother’s? The audience invested as
festivities fill the carriage from a phone.
Jason’s woken early, texts a busy day ahead
we’ll be promised an ending
as long as we plan the next beginning.
His paged namesake remains oblivious.
Medea’s children smile at her
and she breaks down again.
I give her one more station
to change her mind.