We is in the bank

We is number three in the queue
and gulls scream over the city,
and the gulls shriek dump, dump, dump,
fish and chips and sometimes pie.

We is behind the woman in the fox fur
whose hair is a silver helmet,
whose voice is a snort
as she importants herself on her mobile phone
and every ring has its own finger.

We is in the bank
and Small is roll, rolling on the shiny floor
while the rest of the anoraked queue
pull ugly faces because secretly
they would like to slide and roll too.

We is in the bank
and the queue is moving so slowly
it doesn’t move at all,
and Small is tugging my dress every ten seconds
with an are we there yet? Are we there yet?

We is in the bank
with the mouth machines all along the wall,
some that spit notes out and others that suck them in,
and Small wants to press the buttons
but no, no, you must not look at
what other people’s fingers are doing.

We is in the bank eyes to the front,
someone sneezes their Decembers out
into the shared air and we breathe them in,
we do the slow shoe shuffle
and eventually after we have wait, wait, waited –

we put our lips to the glass
and voice-hug the worried woman
who lives behind the window,
and she points and shrugs,
sends us back out into the city of gulls.