A few hours of waiting on a frosty morning
By the sign that spells the limits of the city
Turns all the simple pleasures on –

The warmth of your bed, the armchair by the fireplace,
The friendly colours of your favourite blanket.
The teacup suddenly surpasses every breast you’ve known

In answering chilled hands’ call. She happens by
And without asking to cross her palm with silver
Or snooping for your reasons gives you a lift.

There is chatting and cursing the weather,
There are jokes and music from the radio.
There is a needle in her heart

Points at true north, a picture of her man
Glued to the dashboard. She is on the way home.
No pothole disturbs her whistling their favourite song.

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