Her days could be numbered already;
back against the wall with attitude,
one foot against the radiator,
arms folded, bored.
Its the way to stand though;
it’s cool to look to though you don’t care,
boys like it – don’t they?
means you’re in the gang,
part of the scene.
No more stifling uniform for her;
she’s in “jeggings”, denim look,
doesn’t matter if you overspill,
they’re “in” and that’s that;
everybody’s wearing them.
And her mum’s pleased;
at least she’s got a job, they’ll train her up.
“Pass me a mirror, please”.
Voice of authority;
she doesn’t like it, you can tell,
wanders over to the window display,
moves a few items here and there,
folds a few towels –
She’s distracted;
a gaggle of giggles outside,
free “study” time,
skirts thigh high,
legs not quite the required shape,
but they’re getting there.
Raucous shouts across the road
at a boy, collective strength;
you wouldn’t dare, alone.
Oh well, she will have her first wage soon.
She sweeps away more dead hair.
journeyintopoetry 