Charlotte

She doesn't look like
her photograph: the same sadness,
but missing the imprisoned signalling,
small gestures of window waving
like a little girl locked in her room.

Here in the flesh she seems
not brave enough,
sunk, absent, soft lace and worn calico
replaced with khaki and denim.

How do people get so stuck in dutiful detail?
Where do their minutes go
spent without mischief or magic?
Is it low calorie un-nutritious love,
group hugs and suspicion, shivering in the cold?