Shrimp Breakfast

It's hell being in love with the girl who serves on at
the promenade sea food stall.

If only you could have been there to see the sea shrivel
past the giant, tubular legs of the West pier; or hear
the bark of winged hyenas scavenging fish bites and fancy

boiled crabs - Monday, dressed to kill, today, won't stand
another freezing – your cast-offs strewn along the back
of narrow, wooden sea food stalls. After business,

I looked for you as I ambled barefoot along the rippled beach,
leaving your name fingered in a love heart in the sand,
just in case you might wander past. Even waited close by,

kicking sand at the hours until dark came and the promenade lights
spelled out your name in the night sky. Huh, I hate this “love-lark”
almost as much as I hate those grotesque, black winkles

bathed in vinegar and served in a stupid polystyrene cup with
an even spupider wooden fork. You know what I’m talking about,
the ones you sell to those leering, tie-straightening, slime-balls
from the Amusement Arcade. For God’s sake! Open your eyes,
Carol Fairweather… there’s nothing wrong with renting out deckchairs!