Katherine on the Quay

KM gathers her skirt of words
dashes across the quay to the
Farmers Red Dot sale maybe
she sprays perfume from a tester
before she descends downstairs
to buy black net hosiery three pair
perhaps and back before anyone
notices she is missing

She’s observing the public passing
heads bent in the wind and rain as
she stands impervious, armoured
in the alphabet of her creative prose
alert to the curiosity of tourists who
might dare to reach out and touch
the spaces as if deciphering braille
to feel her words

When no one is looking, she might
slip into Magnetix to browse Granta
or the New York Times, catch-up
on all the literary gos she so loves
shake her head to see an advert
for Virginia Woolf’s diary in hardback
in one of the magazines and then
begin to miss her

On bright sunny days she eavesdrops
as locals park themselves beside her
on grassy spots beside the weird sperm-
like fountain in front of the wine bar that
she secretly frequents wearing her
very best Russian impersonation Katya
to surprise and seduce unsuspecting
patrons before 

slipping back, laughing, sheltered within
the womb of marine-grade stainless steel
warmed by her own words, watching as
people stoop to read upwards or across
quoting her shopping list hair unaware
she’s watching them, her right hand
outstretched offering intimacy briefly
behind her metal mask