The Cold Calculated Cut of Teeth

Long haired girls skin tomatoes with their teeth
at the bus stop beneath underpass.
I can’t tell you what they wear, the colour of their hair,
or numbers at the gathering.
I’m not certain they exist – I dare not look up.

Over time they have become a comfort.
I smile at BLTs wrapped like presents in corner shops.
Never will their T’s feel
the cold calculated cut of teeth
beneath the underpass.