Naughty Breakfast

Carmen holds the Bic lighter to her hair

And counts the split ends.  She gets to twenty

Then gives up.  It’s like lighted gunpowder

Trailing down her back, ready to empty

Her head of brains when it blows.  A scorched blonde

Red-eyed non-American girl, flaunty,

Loud.  Her tired face she got second-hand

From Odd-bins but the look of self-loathing,

The lines and folds, suit her down to the ground.

Pocket trembles, Blondie ringtone goading

Her to ‘Call me.’  “Yeah?  Oh ‘iya,” she shouts

At the phone.  Fumbling, her hand goes in

The other pocket.  Her frayed red mouth shoots

Word bullets at him: “Soz re last night Dave.

I was sick man, ill.  Puking up me guts.”

Her shoes type exclamation marks that weave

Down the platform.  “Was paralysed from the

Whisky man.  Yeah yeah, no more n’I deserve.”

Her slurred words squirm.  Embarrassed, they cover

Their faces looking for somewhere to hide.

“See ya then.  Gotta nurse me ‘angover.”

She grips the bin, eyes heavy with tired.

Reaching in her pocket she takes a swig

Of mobile.  “Fuck,” she says, shaking her head.

From the other pocket comes her prize swag,

The two Bacardi Breezers she just nicked.

She downs them, burps then bows like she’s on stage.

The platform speaker in words metallic:

“The next train is the 09.10 to Barking.”

“Woo woo!” she shouts into her bottle mic.

“S’like bingo.  One and nine the Barking Line!”

Lip quakes.  “Mecca Queen ma was in ‘er time.”