Under the clock at Glasgow Central –

Where once the flower kiosk had offered bunches of romance,

Get-well wishes and forgiveness –

They had agreed to meet,

As afterall where could be more public?

Under the clock at seven to chat

Over coffee and a wee patisserie.

Her red-soled clicky-clacky heels approached

Heralding that gentle hip sway,

That promised much.

Her scarlet lips broke into a grin

When she spotted his red-spotted hanky

As if the six foot six black man, under the clock

In the end-of-day travel stramash

Wouldn’t have been enough.

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