I'm partly this and partly that
partly veggie partly fat
trying to be a new man
and as she says partly human.

I wandered lonely in a crowd
a ghost among the people
whose arms were raised and heads were bowed
in solemn salutation to the gods
of contemporary communication.
She didn't, did she was the cry.
I'll never know. Why should I?

How was I in my prime?
Was I sublime or merely sub?
Did I impress or distress?
In my mumbling fumbling way,
did I go the extra mile?
Tell me why do you smile.

Her good winter coat covers all.
Her thin frame fleshed in old fashion,
wearily wearing threads too small.
a sweet, silent, sombre passion.

Wheezing, short-stepping, unsteady,
a shadowy, sundry, proud soul.
No eyes meet hers. No neighbours nod.
Each vacant gaze defies delays.

She sallies forth but comes in last,
politely suppressing her past.
But she's been there, got the T-shirt.
It's in the wardrobe gathering dust.

Painfully perched on life's bare branch,
praying not to break the bough,
she's as snsible as they expect.
More sensitiive than they allow.

Our gang built bonfires on the back field
from prunings, clippings, waste wood and junk.
Our gang played games in the street
- Statues, Simon Says, Hopscotch, Tag,
chased down entries, Knock and Run,
chewed bubble gum, swapped cards and comics,
played marbles through rain and smog and sun.

Then cars began to fill our street,
no place for games and cards and comics.
We chased girls, got the music beat.
The our gang split up - economics.

Some still play games but gamble,
drink fire, wear tags, swap cash for hash.
Others work for pay and seldom play,
spend cash on kids and wives and worthy lives.

He's looking at me again.
Eyes fixed like he was insane.
Clay pipe propped on lips, pondering,
seriously sepia wondering.
No name on the severe brown frame.

He stares but doesn't see me.
I don't see him for what he was.
I see a fictional facsimile,
conflation of another's fantasies
- comic working class
- salt of the Earth
- his own man
- hero or Caliban.