In the Nineteen Nineties
I saw Mrs Doubtfire, every day,
on my way to work.
Staring from a window,
as I waited for an ordinary London bus.
As real as you, me, and the woman
in my queue, who religiously
applied makeup, on high and holy days.
She’s a life-sized cardboard cut-out,
peeking furtively from a curtain.
And I’m sure we’ll see each other again:
something in the Nineteen Nineties,
at a quarter past eight,
on a cold and misty morning.
So farewell Mrs Doubtfire,
I can see my bus is coming; farewell.