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Saturday Poem: ‘Tom Potter’ by Gill Andrews

A man on the bus smiles at me and I stumble because
for a millisecond he's Tom Potter, a man
who held dice in the bowl of his hand and 
never revealed when he'd use them.
Tom Potter was enormous as the Bank of England.
I'd phone Tom Potter and he'd say Sorry but do nothing. 
I'd visit Tom Potter, he'd sparkle and call me
Darling, do nothing. The man on the bus looks down, 
embarrassed. I too look down, embarrassed. 
I will always be the woman who once knew Tom Potter.