She calls herself Ethel Du May if you were to ask
But it's not her name, not really,
Even she's not sure what it is anymore

Metal framed glasses with a wonky arm
Skin like crepe paper coated in a layer of polyfilla
With rouge a plenty upon her cheeks, her lips and teeth

Her petite frail frame drowning in gaudy colours and faux fur
Rows upon rows of beads wrapped tightly round her neck
Long pointed red talons, the only decoration upon her delicate fingers

Sitting at the bus stop awaiting the number 21 to town
The time, quarter past nine, she sits and waits
Pressing her menthol cigarette to her lips and tutting looking at her watch

A designer handbag placed upon her lap filled with secrets
Boiled sweets, an address book, anais anais perfume
A hip flask of sherry, metal handcuffs and a spare pair of knickers

She smiles at strangers, at no one, at memories
She's lived a life you only read about in storybooks
And poems