streetman gone
last time i saw him,
he rolled up one dirt
stiff jeans leg
to show
the crab knee brown scabs
fencing off his ulcers'
open red and pus brulee.
on crutches,
skin that old ivory grey
from living rough,
scrubland beard
& missing teeth,
he tells us
he's caught a superbug
while in hospital from heroin.
we talk for moments,
i give him shrapnel
from my pocket
and then walk away,
to eat overpriced food
in a comfortable restaurant
w/a woman as beautiful as mousetraps.
months have passed and,
on bristol bridge,
where streetman was a fixture,
there's a dustbin instead.
for now,he is not there,
& business people walk by
& maybe some recall him
& maybe some don't;
each caught up
in their own bedsheets,
trying to not simply
disappear
©2008 Ed Churchouse/UK
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