He’s angry, angry in an obvious, unreachable way –
shirtless, sunglasses, headphones,
with a blue plastic bag full of beer (double bagged)
and a beer in his hand.
He spits, spits with a force of a punch,
it slaps the floor wetly – he’s made his position clear.
Across the road in the off-license,
fifteen feet from the spit,
a man is buying four Stella.
His face is red, red from sunburn and drink.
He’s thirty-five and angry.
‘Not much of a deal, is it, four for five-fifty?’
The man behind the counter starts to explain
it would be six-seventy otherwise –
it doesn’t placate him, it doesn’t touch him.
Inside a plumber’s flat, stuck to the walls with Blu Tack,
are two dozen red and white flags, plastic and small.
He was once handsome but is now four to six stone overweight.
His wife too is fat.
Their washing, mostly his underwear, dries on a rack
out the front, in the car park.
Later they’ll watch the game with their two daughters,
Maybe her brother will come round, with his girls.