Rain in July

She taps her red pumps
On the stool as she gazes
Out of the window of the Samaritans
Charity shop. She stands out
Like a snow white moth
Against a grimy window pane.
In a melancholy mood
She knows all her friends
Are working in TopShop and
Harvey Nichols and they spend
Their wages on shoes.
But she brightens at the thought
Of being surrounded by
Five decades of tack that nobody
Ever wanted. These relics.
These fossils.
For reasons incomprehensible
To her, people buy them.
She knows she will never
Have richer conversation
Than that of the old lady
Who comes every morning at ten
To buy albums of forgotten
Boy bands or the alcoholic
Who purchases a small stone owl
For seventy pence.
She is like rain in July;
Out of place. But refreshing.