The 50 pence drops
and it seems disconnected from
me. It is not mine, though
I realise as I pick it up and pass
it to the lady in front of me
that it is. I am a child, loose

change in my pocket, I had
assumed she was also. But
out comes her lady purse,
it is a brick with a movie star 
clasp, she unclasps it sort of
officious as if it is I stealing

from her. She is well to do
and I am ruffian, clothes never
sit upon me right and she can
tell it. The 50p slips into 
her void, gone forever- 
embezzled. Could have been

a tip for the chirpy girl who
makes an effort to make my
coffee sound like the most exciting
thing that has ever happened,
even in her brown uniform, 
here in Walthamstow, in the rain.