Richard Atkinson - 2 poems

air

passed  by an  old  man 

who  looked  about  as  old as  anyone could.

bent  up  double, one  hand  on  stick ,other  on  wall

crawling  along, you  could  sense his  determination

to move  along. every  small  inch  forward counted .

stopping  me, he  looked  up, his  eyes  appeared  bloodshot

at  the  bottom, almost  gone

like  they  were  on  their  last  legs as  well

he  asked  if  I  had  any  matches

I said  I  had  a  lighter but  he said ,

showing  me  his  fifty  pence

that he  was  off  to  get  a  cigar.

he  called  at  my  door  once 

asked  me  if he  cleared away

some  of  the  rubbish  and  weeds

if  I  could  spare  some  change

I  told  him  not  too  bother 

gave  him some  change anyway.

so  I  guessed  he’d  got fifty  pence  from  someone 

for  clearing  weeds

and  had  decided  he  was  going  to live it up , for  a  change

and buy  a  cigar and  probably  did  not  have  enough

for  food ,tobacco or even matches.

would  have  offered  to go  get  his  cigar  for  him

but   figured he wanted  to  make  the  journey himself

and  that  just being  outside getting some  air

and  seeing  some  sights must  mean  a  lot

when  you know their  won’t  be  that  much more

air, rain, sights and  ugly funny people to take  in.

hoped  it wouldn’t  be  his  last  smoke ,

everyone  needs  a  perk

now  and  again, to keep  them  going ,

especially  when almost  their,

alone

weed  clearing

looking  for  half  forgotten memories

of  better  times

amongst  weeds  and  rubbish

their only  real  friends  left.

 ***

at  the  top  of  the  stairs

three  or  four maybe , sitting, huddled

with  elder  brothers and  sisters

in  semi  darkness

shush  they  say, keep still they  say

stop  fidgeting  they  say

trying  to  hear it  all

tiny  head on  scabby  knees

arms  clung tight around legs.

shouting , crashing , coming from  kitchen

mum screaming. dad  back  from pub

back  from  going  to  see  a 

man  about  a  dog  again

more  screaming, banging.

what  had  I  done ?

everything  was  always my  fault,

I  was  just  plain clumsy  and  stupid,

or  so  I  had  been  told.

the  dim light shining from  the  kitchen

illustrating  the  source

of  the  disturbance,

in  the  shadowed dust trail light.

is it the  kitchens fault

and  not  mine, it  sounded so  angry,

I  mused.putting  my  hands  over my ears.

then  leaving  the fold for Grans.

what had  I  done ?

maybe  it  was  the kitchens fault  again.

returning  to  the fold, un-noticed

years  later to  a Saturday only dad.

what  had  I  done ? I thought,

wishing  the kitchen

would  take  the  blame

for  a  change.

years  later,once, upon  drinking  too  much,

I would  find  myself, attacking  a kitchen,

in   a   blind  drunken rage.

as  though  I  were still mad at  it,

for  letting me  get the  blame ,always,

for  scabby  knees, separations, arguments

broken  plates  and  lurve dreams

turned ugly  again.