Almost to the end of economy,
Where the stares are more distant and the food less free,
There's a greasy combover talking back
To the Sun, and his buddy who can't stand blacks;
There's a girl keeping ever so quiet down there,
Avoiding the spook with the flickering stare.
Her hair is scrunched with a rubber band
But tumbles down with a flick of her hand,
Concealing the crease in her velvet skin
And her cheeks so rare and precisely unthin.
But she watches a movie unflinchingly
And doesn't glance down from the washroom to me.