Man in a poncho
Stains on the sleeve
Waft of tobacco
Black grey greasy hair
Franticly twisting his hair into curls with both hands
Annie. Morrisey. A mop. A shaggy dog.
Something at the window catches him.
He sees me staring at his eyes in the window.
Flinching. Scratching. Curling his hair again.
Looking at me behind him in the reflection,
Curling. Scratching. Staring. Not-blinking.
The smell of smoke is suffocating.
A train rushes past.
To her dog: ‘no Charles. This way, the bad man scares me’