TuesdayIII September

Punk

Pupils pinned,
Black dots,
Hair the colour of rainbows
European accent,
Hoarsened by a quick night of body bopping,
pill popping,
bar hopping.
It's coming up to lunchtime and you are still out there.
Coming down here.
Do you have a home?
What's it look like?
Spiky ripples from the blue,
A snapshot assessment,
Turning to recognition.
Just a girl with a bottle of water and a fur coat.
Dirty ducks and the odd coot skoot on the rising lock,
Lunchtime trade mills round.
Sniffing at exotic foods from Malaysia to Mexico.
Buying cheap tshirts and other trash.
'Have you got water for the dog'
'Shit, shit'
'What the dog's called shit?'
'No'
'What the dog's called shit?'
'No'
Tipping water into a cupped hand for the sandy boxer.
He laps at it.
And barks for more.
Standing back, box chest thrust forward.
'Jesus dog chill the fuck out'
He gets another lick.
She moves on.
He shouts 'thank you'.
She doesn't turn around.

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