She stands in the airport terminal,
hands thrust into skinny jeans. Twiggy-eyed
as five girls grapple their Dad's arm from her waist.
The two ex-wives follow at a distance:
try not to look the new one up and down
but she catches the glance exchanged:
feels a crimson tinge seep up her neck
as manicured nails bruise her palms.
She sits amongst the pink suitcases
that have been temporarily abandoned
in the designated waiting space.
If you have any comments on this poem, Tracy Wall would be pleased to hear from you.