for food
for ciggies
for a bottle of something
sweet and toxic
for turning day into night
really quick.

Like crooked spoons
she rattles her fingers 
shoves them in front of noses eyes
wrinkled mugs.

She’s not thinking of work
going to work or able to work.

The air reeks of fish
hauled in from the night
gutted 
industrialised.
boxed and canned.

Some of us after waking
after rolling from primal
activities smell
of successful catches too.

She comes again
unfolds a crumpled claw
and scuttles like a crab
down College Hill

a shoal of human traffic
sliding towards the sea
to dig in the mud after her.