Ingrid sports a black eye;
she looks like a panda.

She said she walked
into a door;
she doesn't lie
convincingly.

I know her old man;
I passed him
on the stairs of the flats;
his beady eyes
drinking me in,
giving me the cold glare,
the cold shoulder.

We walk through the Square,
off to the shops.

What happened to your eye?
I ask again,
studying the black
and slightly green;
walking beside her,
passing the milkman
and his horse drawn cart,
the horse wearing
a nosebag of food,
ignoring us.

I walked into
the bedroom door,
she says,
knowing I don't
believe her,
looking sheepish,
knowing
I guess the truth.

What have you got
to get at the shops?
I ask.

She shows me a list
on a scrap of paper,
pencil scribbled,
in her small right hand
a handful of coins.

I passed your old man
on the stairs yesterday,
I tell her,
gave him my
Wyatt Earp stare,  
I say, he didn't care.

I note her hair
is unbrushed,
her green patterned dress
unwashed.

We cross Rockingham Street
into Harper Road.

I talked too much,
Dad said,
she confesses,
he said I yak and yak.

We pass the paper shop
and go on
to the grocer shop.

I say,
if I had your old man
in the sights
of my six-shooter gun
I'd fire a cap
up his ***;
she sniggers;
people stare at us
as we pass.