Sitting next to her pint of Stella, Tracey
grins wide as a house
teeth crumbling blocks of cottage cheese;
hands veiny as strobe light spaghetti.
'Yes it's me' she says, when we sidle up and ask her.
She is clearly used to being approached like this.
'It's me, Tracey'. And she takes a sip
cloudy pint meeting cloudy lips
palms cooling against the cold glass
tits typically unruly.
Tracey grins and we watch
lovely soft crumbs falling all around.

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