< Previous | Contents | Next >
Beneath the hem of Mr Tuffin’s black placky mac, Beside the steel-laddered river, our rat
Waits for the eight fifty-eight to Blackfriars, Eating her baby boy rat bit by bit.
Tuffin’s brolly tell-tails from his wrist,
Flaps his mac and strokes in clock-time our rat’s back. She laps it up, lost, rolls her eyes
And spits her baby boy’s teeth on the track.
Beside her his bowler black brief case Shadows her drip-full lip and pink pinny belly. Tuffin’s turn-ups gutter with baby rat tat,
A fat pool platter laps the platform.
Train pops pops in and Tuffin hops on our rat She lies flat back dead in the track gap.
He sits in his spot, fat with rat family snap On the eight fifty-eight to Blackfriars.
Banker!
November 6, 2014