There are those with elegance
There are those without
I sit somewhere between
A sort of superficial imposter
It is not the young
Who have the real style
What with rusted, juiced-lemon headgear
And builders foam, deep soled trainers
Father and son masquerade
Showing off their mountain jackets
Complete with Matterhorn emblems
They don’t do it for me either
Neither do the knobbly knees
Above the turquoise slip-on shoes
Which, however much I like the colour
Do not suit those bare ankles
But the red camera
Oh yes, the lady with the red camera
Who clearly says: I don’t give two fucks
About what you think of me
And of course
In that instant, even without trying
She has stolen the show
She has won (and walked away with) the first prize
