Saints of Central Station

by Marion McCready

Floating through the melancholia of Costa Coffee,
the stripes on my cardboard cup resemble
a slashed face.
     The shop music speaks to me;
the aroma of Chai Tea speaks to me.
Whose clump of black hair
lies on the slippy floor? How did it get there?
Where is the head missing this hair?
Where is the hand that yanked it?

It’s 7pm and I'm in Glasgow Central
killing time before night shift takes me
to the south side.
     What’s the time? Is it time yet?
Night shift is calling up the train tracks.
Central Station clock tick-tocks
above the lives of so many.

I sit in the corner of the coffee shop,
a man walks past, money chinking
     in his pocket, he says
It's a bloody shame, so it is.
I'm people-watching through the goldfish bowl
of the window. The glass creates halos
on the bodies of commuters.
     Creates a Hildegard with cobalt hair;
Kentigern with a mohawk; Joan of Arc
in heeled ankle boots, tattoo on her lower leg
rising up and flying through the air.