The Fishmonger

How he used to horrify me
decapitating fish with a chopper
Afterwards the heads would stare
and gape at the witnesses
who queued with worn purses
for sprats and sole and finnan haddock,
slapped in a scale, wrapped in newsprint,
slid, stinking, obscene into shoppers.
The blood surprised me, soaking the sawdust
and the way the fishmonger flirted,
wiping on filthy trousers
his reeking, slimy hands.