Trumpington Park and Ride

Carbon date the bones.
Count the rings inside the trunk.
August abs are out and the summer sleeves are rolled up
and the woman in front of me is middle aged,
her forearm tattoo is a faded shade of blue;
the wolf’s head is a cast of Carolina,
its whiskers that stretch round and back around
are a UCLA shade that have caught the sun every time her forearms were out:
she's in the queue for the bus that'll take her to the park and ride and from there who knows where.