Rum and coke, weird bloke.
Eats satsumas left at breakfast.
A child collects the remnants.
Rubies and emeralds glitter from a girl’s taut skin.
Thin, like a mannequin, dressed up to the nines,
while the man drinks rum and coke.
He is a begging bloke.
Magazine in hand, he eats satsumas the child offers
as the glittering girl disappears into a bin liner
filled with clothes,
like a scarecrow’s wardrobe.
To the man she proffers
as he softly stutters.
The woman slips on the satsuma skin,
then drinking a liquor potion
like a witch’s brew,
a blackbird flew
and pecked her nose,
emptying the clothes bag while the man played guitar.
The girl grins, sings “tra-la-la”.
Then the child comes in,
peeling the last of the satsuma skin.
“He’s my son,” she says.
The tension evaporates,
a black cat rushes by a back door,
drinks milk put out by the beggar.
The woman knows she is no witch,
simply stuck on the underground at Shoreditch
with a guy unable to afford the fayre.
She gives him her ticket, walks over where her son swiftly stops.
“That’s your dad,” she says.
Then a heartfelt plea of submission from the periphery.
“Madeline!” he cries.
Finally they all realise as the train from Shoreditch shoots away.