No Walking Stick
Green bag by black and white umbrella,
held by an old looking fella in his left hand,
moving with purpose, marching proudly
back and forth, patrolling the safe platforms.
Ladies laughing up in arms observing overtly
the old man in sights on stage for the freak show.
Middle finger flicks past a barrel to trigger
a chain reaction of bright flash to a startled mass.
-
Yellow Hi Vis eating pie with thumb and finger
between lunch and dinner he’s not getting any thinner,
but he is waiting, with a return ticket to the capital;
for labour under moonlight at the construction site.
From the darkness in a high vis harness,
a mighty meaty, awfully sweaty, hot and heavy,
figure uncertainly steps forward and into a
shining bright, focused tight flash light.
-
The train is on time spitting gas one minute away,
the freak is falling to the tracks. Piss leaking
all over the rock and roll soldier, of an era immersed
with engine grime, dry blood and cooking grease.
Sharp pebble in his eye, but the guy was half blind before
the cackles cease and the ladies look down at the freak
who tries to stand with his umbrella, but breaks it.
He holds up an empty hand, but no one takes it.
-
Rich white trash see a train coming about to crash.
The massive yellow body boldly steps forward
with wet sticky fingers that slide into the palm
of the fragile freak and burns the muscles in his arm.
Two Ds, three Es, an F and a pass
he’ll never be more than working class,
with second hand jeans showing his arse,
but distinction in the master class of decency.
-
Six more months of marching, one medal down,
Saluting his five foot, seventeen stone saviour.
Looks him up and down through a bloodshot eye,
inspired by why his brothers chose to die.
