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Thick work boots, soles easing slowly
from their hinges, flap like tongues,
the roots of this orange, artificial flower
coarsely-cultivated in the soil of the Braid Valley.
A mass of pockets, in trousers, jacket,
he fumbles for change, asks "Wot's good today?"
I offer pasties, sausages, chicken burgers
for his perusal, an aficionado deciding his pleasure
like any connoisseur in some French 5-star
and not here, in this local chippy.
He mumbles "chip, and make it quick"
he's got roads to patrol, asphalt
important as soil to a farmer.
I scoop and wrap, hand the soggy parcel at him.
I see him stuffing the scalding
browned fingers, handfuls at a time
shoveling like there's no tomorrow
just outside the shop, his mouth
a piston, the feel of his
calloused hand brushing mine
a memory that will always signify
hard living, hard life.
No-one else will serve this man
He stinks the consensus
but I feel an unexplained compassion
though dread his visits, don't know where
his money has been, as I drop it slimy
into the till, unseen laughter echoing
from the bowels of the shop, him gruff with the
injustice of it all. His money
as good as anyone's.

[]

First appeared in The Green Tricycle, June 2004