Lips smack, shovelling grease with greedy fingers.
Squelch-rip of beady-eyed prawns; wooden stab of curled beige
Whelks in squeaky polystyrene. All under the wide, full gaze
of a
Tired child, the day smeared across them. Grit of sand and
Tide mark of synthetic vanilla.
On tiptoes, peering through a window of fudge and toffee,
coveting
Fat sticks of rock, striped and sticky beneath yellowed
cellophane.
Dodging the violent paroxysm of a reeking dog and the
smarting spray
Of saltwater on bare legs. A bowl of gun-metal grey, invaded
By a blunt nose and lolling tongue, skidding across the
floor, blossoming
Dark stain on red concrete.
Later, tomato juice with unpleasant bite squashed beside
The one armed bandit and the reek of stale beer.
A packet of ready salted crisps to share while you
Sit still. Just the one. Then just one more as the cue ball
thuds dully
And bumps against frayed green.
Exhausted, insatiable grind of mechanical jaws on copper,
feeding
Ambition and futility through one tarnished slot. Stumbling
Inside, air sharp with rapid staccato bleeps and electronic
pop,
Harsh light spilling across the quay
Waiting buckets, for the folly of creatures tricked
By flabby bacon dangled on taut lines
Hauled up from inky water with the stench of fish
And panicked pincers grasping at air. Stolen from
The sea, vast and unknowable, its silent depths stretching
Out, out where the buoys are
by Rhonda Peak
