Kavita A. Jindal
Piccadilly Line Salon
That kind of Wednesday morning on the tube
when I’m sinking into stupor
after daredevil antics and death-chases in my dreams
burnt out at dawn.
Three women in my carriage are doing their make-up.
From Hammersmith to Earls Court
they peer, pout, slick, flick
they are good; they are quick!
Stroke, curl, swish.
I admire their chutzpah
their ability to create
their own boudoir
between their face and their mirrors
in a crowded train
elbows slicing into their neighbours.
Not that they need the glitz.
Not that they are plain;
far from it. They’re almost perfect
now, almost finished.
One files her rounded nails
One pinches the skin over her cheek.
The third is ready to pack away.
Blot and smack lips, all done, sweet.
I straighten up.
Should I rustle in my satchel?
Check in a mirror
for bits of breakfast pear
stuck in my teeth?
