A woman alone is open, gaping like
a button hole without a button hook.
She carries her muff before her like an offering
Flic, flic! The eyes of strangers
slit the pause like razors.
This railway carriage stinks of creosote, wet fur.
“I prefer the window up, thank you”
“I prefer it down”
She lights a Sobranie to remind her
of Devon in the haying; the gentlemen
lean forward, reading the initials
on her morocco case.