In

In the playground; tarmac covered,

yellow-lined for sports unplayed,

brutal for the knees’ skin.

“Ye’ve skinned yer knees!”

A taunt for a boy taking a shine

to a pig-tailed girl.

 

In the quadrangle: uni-formed,

blazer-armoured for trials by combat,

fatal for the self-esteem.

“Ye nah nowt, man!”

A thing the boy already knows

- in the big school, now.

 

In Stanhope Park: open-aired,

refuge from the common room,

smoking as a statement:

“You’ve read Pirsig?”

A book that wasn’t about riding

and fixing motorbikes.

 

In employment: vastly un-clued,

jacket-clad for office banter,

sharpened by disappointed years.

“Fetch the long weight!”

A joke brought from warehouse

to office unchanged.

 

In uniform, squarely-bashed,

razor-barbered for tidy combat,

something no-one expected.

“There are weapons!”

A lie with many consequences

for the blameless too.

 

In alleyways, shaking husks,

darkly bearded by time’s own grime -

there but for outragoeous fortune.

“I am a man,”

A cry for acknowledgement,

from life’s discards.

 

In the graveyards, long forgotten

former generals, flashy tombstoned -

dying for attention:

“Here lies Earl Haig.”

A worm-eaten hero, no more glorious

than a jumble of bones and soil