Glasgow is crying.
I watch the accordion woman
fold up her instrument,
scrape up a few coins,
and pull close her proud little jacket–
tidy and beige.
Glasgow is crying.
She marches up the street
feeling the years in her limbs.
I watch the scarf,
tidy and black
and bent into the rain,
plodding home–
to a snug little flat, I hope–
tidy and warm.

She has a cat, I decide–
beige.
He purrs like an accordion.
Maybe I’ll ask her, tomorrow,
if she has a cat.