Tony Quarrington

A bright, brisk morning

In a small English town,

I order an extra shot americano

In the one coffee house

That does not reek of grease,

And take a seat outside.

From the doubtful comfort of my

Three and a half legged plastic chair

I scan the temptations around me:

“Nails Palace – Professional Nail Care for Ladies”,

“Cash Generator – the Buy, Sell and Loan Store”,

“Tanning Heaven”,

And the Salvation Army’s “Community Store”,

Promising “Heart to God, Hand to Man”.

“Eel Pie Island”, specialists in all day breakfasts,

Proudly proclaims in yellow, peeling letters,

It is a “Caf’e”, an apostrophe planted

Between the “f” and “e”.

The “Hot 4 U Pizza, Chicken and Kebab” house

Has closed, victim of too much competition

In the fast food field,

Proof that you CAN have

Too much of a good thing.

Unless it’s burgers and jumbo sausage rolls.

Obesity is a badge of honour here.

In frayed makeshift marquees

And spread along the pavement,

Traders display their wares –

Leather jackets, shell suits,

Batteries, watches, mobile phones, 

Toys, rugs, carpets, curtains,

Handbags, purses and luggage –

Each screaming the critical selling point of

Affordability.

Relatively.

The saucy entreaties of the meat wagon guy

To “come on girls, don’t be shy,

Give my lovely meat a try”

Trigger giggles but no takers;

A further invitation to pinch his pork loins

Is similarly snubbed.

Granville’s traditional barber’s shop

Has closed after fifty years;

Its red and white striped pole

No longer rotates, confirming

There’s nothing for the weekend here.

Supplanted by a succession

Of glitzy Turkish emporia

Offering an eye watering array

Of treatments for every part

Of the modern male head and face.

The Lord Raglan pub is also boarded up,

A ragged, handwritten paper sign

Flaps in the vape drenched breeze;

Some wag has inserted an “i”

Between the words “to” and “let”.

Country crooners from the fifties

Trill through the babble

Of Bengali, Romanian, Arabic

And English

That assail my ears.

The RAC canvasses for new recruits

But most people here do not drive,

Unless you count the cavalcade of

Motorised scooters and wheelchairs

Wreathed with union jacks and teddy bears

Parked outside the padlocked toilets.

Bald middle aged white men, 

Their relationship with teeth

Over,

Flaunt their body art

Of indecipherable oriental slogans,

Football team allegiances

And the obligatory catalogue

Of proud progeny,

Many of whom they have

Not seen for years.

Japanese tosas and pit bull terriers,

Acquired more for their menace

Than their questionable cuteness,

Slowly encircle each other,

Doing nothing more threatening

Than exploring each other’s private parts.

Teenage mums congregate outside Gregg’s 

To share a cigarette and debate

Last night’s episode of Love Island,

To compare frilly pram accessories,

And to show off the clothes just bought

For Noah and Amelia in Primark.

Occasionally they turn around to bark

At their same bored and testy toddlers

Committing the heinous crime of

Being children.

An Albert Steptoe tribute act

Stutters along the street,

Peering professionally

Into every bin and doorway

For bottles, fag ends

And unfinished food scraps,

Leaving the council street cleaner

To deal with the discarded needles.

The midday sun glints through

The single, leafless tree,

Where neither Vladimir nor Estragon wait,

As I drain my second americano

And head for home. 

And yet, it is I who feels observed,

A figure of curiosity,

Even suspicion,

With my fancy coffee,

Collection of Eliot’s poetry

And notebook and pen,

Observing and trying to capture

Life.