Tram Diary Entry (2)

Rain finds solace in the ends of my straw hair for a moment then is absorbed faster than the trams do pull up before me and he leans out of the window, rattling his tongue at the small woman standing next to me, Mum, you’re almost there, not long to go and you can move on from life.

The wind files my wet hair over one side of my face, needle sharp split-ends spike my cheek, exposing my rogue eye which jumps towards him, You look tired daughter, have a Java, He tells me. Have a Java.

And the ends of my hair catch in my eye so I flick my head to the side and wait until the next tram pulls up, for I am quite thirsty by now and am feeling as though I were a piece of hay in a needle-stack.