She’s a rosy lady with glasses,
usually wrapped in floral dress,
news clenched in a firm hand,
a swinging bag over an arm.
With an air of Jane Austin,
regimental routine announces her,
two seconds short of the train,
perfect platform position each time.
Every morning she boards first,
however early I begin waiting,
too tall to provide eye contact
and quickest to rare empty seats.
I used to stand shooting daggers,
now blunt with resignation,
too proud to respect her order,
not strong enough to admit defeat.