How It All keeps Its Rhythm

First that Chicago click of heels, tap drip,
then the low, uncontrollable sigh as they sit,
skirts shoved up hastily, trousers slung to the floor,
a room of women, uncrossing themselves, thighs open
thongs pulled taut like catapults guarding each door -
which kindly hold their coats for them.
Even the seat has been warmed,
signs put up to warn them if a man will come
in unannounced to this party of girls pealing back
plastic, sliding their fingers up into Kimberley-Clark’s
toilet roll holder and tracing their hand along the edges,
like skimming a reel of Sellotape, before passing
the tissue parcel under the next cubicle
and thanking each other often.