Someone has complained of the beach weed stench –
this beach stinks
is etched into a bench.
Next to this someone has penned
You a bitch and your mum is a fish
The queue for chicken bones, the hound shite footprints,
the coven of the blameless,
detail the carpet, the sand and the pavement.
And the receptionist’s
smile is strapped to her face. Trapped
behind glass, she asks
passers-by for coins to heat her bedsit
in the Outer Hebrides,
and coffers for St. Paul, the oven of Treblinka.
I’m told the magazines in the dentist were
once, almost always
or mostly, in date.