At the station each morning we all tune in. It must be episode nine or ten. This morning, the prettiest girl in school, Dark pony tail and flower print dress, Turns up in flats but before he comes Slips on her heels to achieve the S Of breast and spine, of calf, of self. A minute later, a tremor less, The lover arrives having quite forgotten Non-uniform day. Oh, bottom of class. Our fantasy girl we wanted to see As if in the climactic scene from Grease When the guy is a hunter, she a panther released. Instead he's a schoolboy, she a bottled wasp Lured by sweetness, buzzing and wrestling And crawling the walls of the great empty vessel In which she is trapped. He makes his embrace but her hands are tight-wrapped. We, the chorus, have no expectation Of seeing the drama beyond episode eleven.