Happy Plaice.

Sticky red ribs,
stuck to the side of a limp box
then insides, that squirmed
writhed with hunger,
dry and ever so slightly 

thin skinned chicken,
lukewarm and tender—
I remember the taste, the batter;
that feeling of faint

not as much as the chips;
salt & vinegar always its saviour;
(I still remember that chip
that had sprouted)—
I miss the oil and its

like chicken balls
or something crispy, or similar,
(not that I ever got them);
hurrying, clutching plastic
beneath an arm as 

the other day, I saw the woman on the bus;
taller one with the ponytail, on the upper deck—
that’s the chippy woman I said in my head, but now
things are all so different.