This train car is full.
There are twelve women in purple jackets and red hats
Four at the end, four near the doors and four more behind me
I know the poem,
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
I don’t like what they’ve done to it
Anglo women in a particular uniform
of uniform bourgeoise eclecticism
they’re quite pleased with themselves.
they disembark at Powell street station,
perhaps to tea, or to brandy