A clock strikes the hour
pink boots wait patient
above shiny dotty coats
hung from hooks.
Dap bags peep out.
Must weaves its way
through benches
damp mist hangs
in the air.
Silence permeated
then
obliterated
incessant jangle
the churble of thirty.
A shout from the corridor
‘stop messing about Tracey!’
Socked feet pleased
slip into pink boots.
The mop sweeps the floor.
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