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.
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