12:47 To Kings Cross

This is whilst the front four
carriages uncoupled from the back three.

She was French,
white blazer and jeans,
sensible footwear for this the first summer month.
Her makeup was made up of subtle tones of
and from her hold-all she hauled up a list of her connections:
a plotted grid of directions that were void of the platform numbers she needed:
Ely to Cambridge,
Cambridge to Kings Cross,
St Pancras to Paris,
her roof for the evening was in the 16th.
It’ll be a rush across town using her prepaid
metro ticket printed on borrowed white A4,
borders a UCLA blue with red embellishments,
and stapled to this mass of documentation?
a printed-off Google map with directions to an apartment block
with a streetview screengrab so she'd recognise it quickly
when the lingering Parisian night turned into a
lowlight streetlamp promenade for the tired
and far from real home.

She wanted to know if the 12:35 for Kings Lynn was her 12:47 to Kings Cross.
I was ready to reply with accurate grade C French,
telling her what was in my suitcase, pencil case,
what I wanted to be when I was older, and what the weather was going to be like tomorrow,
but there was no need,
I said she'd the wrong platform in perfect English,
pointed across the way to platform 8
and wished her a safe journey and a good day.
She said nothing,
just looked at me with French one shot
coffee eyes, her lipstick the faded
red you see on cigarette butts on nights out
and she smiled an au revoir.

If I didn't have work the next day
I would've asked her if I could join the journey,
talk nervous nonsense between stations,
talk nervous nonsense in our limited half cooked communications,
just talk nervous,
but Paris is only feasible after the night shifts have been
completed, maybe when I've done with work
and the pay is in then I'll traipse the 16th looking for
the lost Parisian woman who thought my 
12:35 to Kings Lynn was her 12:47 home.