Driving down the rain glistened street
I notice two old ladies by the bus stop, head-scarved
against the downpour. They look into the window of the tattoo parlour.
I wish I could hear what they are saying. Probably they're laughing at
an outlandish design and wondering aloud who would want such
a thing, and where they might want it. But as I drive past I
secretly hope that they are about to go in, for something tasteful,
perhaps a small winged horse, or a rose.