No Walking Stick
There's a green bag by a black and white umbrella,
held by an old looking fella in his left hand,
he is moving with purpose, marching proudly
back and forth, patrolling the safe station platforms.
There are ladies laughing, up in arms, observing overtly
the old man in sight on stage for their X Factor-freak-show.
Then a middle finger flicks past a barrel to trigger
a chain reaction of a bright white camera flash to a startled mass.
-
Wearing a 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 the 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 flashlight.
-
The train is on time spitting gas one minute away,
their 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.
A 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 and no one takes it.
-
Rich white trash see a train coming about to crash.
Then the massive yellow body boldly steps forward
with wet sticky fingers that slide into the palm
of the fragile old man 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 he holds a distinction in the master class of decency.
-
Just six more months of marching after, but one medal down,
after saluting his five foot, seventeen stone saviour.
He looks him up and down through a bloodshot eye,
inspired by why his brothers chose to die.
