The shops are shutting,
metal grates pulled down and padlocked
to stop windows being smashed,
stuff getting stolen.
A woman is locking up a sweet shop –
fudge displayed in colourful rows,
left exposed to tempt passers-by.
Her hair is piled up high like icing on a cupcake.
She smiles when she sees me
then steps close.
I can smell her sugary scent.
You all right there, darling?
She looks up at the unfriendly sky,
back into my face,
quickly away again.
I had forgotten about my face.
Is there a hostel in town?
You mean for backpackers or for … ?
She is unable to gauge my age –
undecided about whether or not to worry.
I’m travelling, I tell her.
Her smile widens in relief.
It’s what I’m used to –
telling lies and observing how
people untighten
when they aren’t required to care.
Teachers were this way.
Is everything OK at home, Allison?
they’d ask, only half looking up
from their marking.
When I nodded eagerly, it was enough to
absolve them.
The sweet woman is pointing.
Your best bet is a B&B along Summerleaze Crescent.
This time of year you’ll get something good.
Quite cheap.
Oh, yes, I’ll find somewhere to stay.