Christopher Moriarty

‘58p on trap two’
he announces
In grandiose tones, completely
Unbefitting the fresh stench of
Piss assaulting my nostrils.

He uses the sweat of his trembling hand
To flatten his comb-over,
Then drips a selection
Of mangled foreign coins
Onto the counter.
‘Got a good price on that one.
If that comes in I’ll get a good bit back won’t I’?

‘Yeah’ I mutter as I accept the coins.
I really don’t care.
I’m trying to read Kafka and alleviate a sense
That somewhere between private school
And higher education,
Something went terribly wrong.

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