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   Sebastian Schloessingk




THE TAXI STAND, SOUTH WALES


In his innocence he refused to give
the big man a potato chip.
The rude man uttered again
‘Give us a chip’. The small fat man,
blank face and innocence, didn’t.
Sitting unfocused on the cab rank bench
late at night in his white shirt, chopped lank
hair, he had every right to refuse.
Even the large man’s nettled fists.
The girl (my source) was pressed between.
The chip fancier - with ominous retro
brylcreem cliff - tore past her sober
body at him, all three strangers.
Then, face blank or indignant,
the dumpy man had an epileptic fit.
The rough man backed off. A lady scurried
at last from her booth to help the distressed,
whom she remembered. ‘Sorry, mate, sorry.
If I’d known there was something wrong with you ...’, went
the big bloke and rode out his cab in due course,
limbering up with threats for household.
The small man, for being unwise,
had shed both front teeth and would do again.
Fantastically unwise.


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