On a wet afternoon in Wetherspoon’s

I came across her: gazing intently,

like a survivor from some belle époque

into the mirror of her make-up box;

and making herself presentable

for a night out and its chances,

she applied eye shadow and liner

with a practised hand, then blended

a blusher to the natural tint of her skin.

From time to time she paused,

deflating the banter, risqué and obvious,

of daytime regulars in a drawl

as rich as poured molasses.

She said her name was Antoinette –

mixed race, Belizean, and proud

of genes that shaped her cheek bones,

her hair as sleek as Jeanne Duval’s

and which she brushed and brushed,

her rhythm slow, insistent.