From Afro Blues…
A tawny owl screeched a yell of dissent but Floyd’s thought process had finally become coherent and he had calmed down enough to remember one of the other things that turned him on: Nature. He could never let that go although that was not necessarily true. If he spent a life with this woman he would forget Mother Nature too. Probably never completely but that zest, that additional drive to experience nature and to fight for it, would diminish. Yet, right now, with a quarter of the moon shining on the lake and the owl screeching from the dark woods that threw their silhouette over the shimmering water, Floyd was inspired. It was not one of his poems about nature, it was this…
SELF PITY
It was coming up to Christmas.
Yet tidings of good joy were not yet evident.
It was the pressure,
and the crowds.
Just two weeks to go
and the shopping still not done.
An old man pretended to be Father Christmas.
His jolly smile, just a lie.
He’d abused his wife that morning
and had spent his pension on beer.
People carried parcels,
Christmas Trees,
and heavy bags.
They all wore heavy, dark,
winter coats,
and boots.
So much bulky clothing that you could not see their individual shapes.
The air was crisp, dry, and minus twenty C.
People were in a hurry
and not prepared to wait,
nor to be sociable.
Definitely not friendly.
Walking along this long,
double sided shopping precinct
was a man.
On his own.
All on his own.
A number of things made him stand out…
He stooped.
He wore no gloves.
His shoes were worn, scratched, torn.
He wore odd socks
but they were not evident under his dirty brown trousers,
which were two sizes too large,
and tied together with string.
He passed the old Father Christmas
and smiled.
The old bearded man told him to piss off
so he smiled again,
his brown teeth showing black holes,
and he wished Santa a happy New Year.
It was all the same to him,
it had been no smile of joy,
nor compassion.
It was irony,
and loneliness.
For a second he had communicated with someone
and had not asked for anything.
He walked on,
through the throng,
and wondered why crowds always went the opposite way –
to him.
And why nobody cared.
Each face he saw was miserable,
aching,
wanting to get home,
and be rid of this burden.
At least they had a home
and some warmth to retreat to.
Sure they were tired,
of their shopping,
and their duties.
But was it they who had slept last night,
in a bed,
in the warm?
And not under the bridges
by the river.
The man’s black overcoat seemed longer at the front
than at the back.
It too was tied together,
tightly,
making the lower part look like a heavy skirt.
It was stained
with white marks on the cuffs
and on the side.
He did not have a hat
but wore a scarf over his ears and head.
He was cold,
but used to it.
And he was lonely,
and would never be used to it.
He reached the end of the pedestrian area
and turned back.
He walked on, and on.
Now the crowd seemed to have turned back too.
Sod’s law, he thought.
He watched some oncomers eating hotdogs.
And some more.
As the next hot dogs went by he walked up to a man with one,
“Spare some food, man?”
He got no reply,
just a shudder from the man who turned away to shield his food.
Then he passed the vendor
but he was as unfriendly as Father Christmas.
Nobody saw the tramp,
except those that moved away.
But he was there
and hungry
and had nowhere to go.
Nobody fed him.
Nobody gave him a penny.
Nobody gave him a care,
no one wanted to share.
He was turned out of shops,
moved on by police,
and ignored by the mass.
This man knew what Christmas was
but had not experienced it for so long –
not since the tragedy.
Not since he was a bum.
He had just one thing going for him –
he was as low as you can get.
I am this poor man
but I do not miss the warm,
nor food,
nor drink.
I am as low down as you can get,
because my woman is gone.
Oh give me five minutes of your time,
every day.
I take what I can get,
just don’t leave me all alone.
Copyright © 03.06.2000 – Kevin Mahoney