#91

Counting out change,
The man pounces hands in his pockets
Deep, he pulls them out
And dumps the findings on the till
Amongst the coppers,
Or rather, the coppers are among,
A mountain of nail clippings
Bitings perhaps
Stirred from their hiding place
And strewn like fresh shrimp
On a deck
The girl blinks at him
And fishes out her due

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