by Simon Armitage
It was all about shoes. In that small town
there was hardly a foot she hadn’t dressed
or clamped and sized in the Brannock Device,
and barely a toe that hadn’t blenched
at the force of her thumb as she prodded and pressed.
Not known for her lightness of touch,
riding home one night at the back of the bus
she’d bungled a big tin of Dulux gloss
and a lurid delta of scarlet sludge
had fanned as far as the driver’s heels
to be walked by passengers onto the street.
