Trevor

Trevor

 

I glimpsed Trevor today,

looking good, clean bedroll,

spotless trackie top and bottoms

brand new trainers,

jaunty brown bowler

over a balaclava

 

glimpsed Trevor today,

scuttling black headstones,

surrounding his lair

in the masonic necropolis

 

shouting at Uncle Felix

who was not there,

and may never have existed

anywhere

 

Trevor only ate what he lifted

from stalls in the market

proper food - cafe food

couldn’t be trusted

 

he pitched a tent

spoiling the view and the lawn

of a community garden,

the neighbours ganged up on him

 

his stuff was binned -

his tent was torched

in celebration

 

he took to living

in gothic crypts

and mausoleums

styled after Pugin

 

a cemetery is safer for sleeping

than under the flyover

at the mercy of drunks

and passing strangers

with daily trips to A&E -

black eyes, busted nose

pink plasters patching ebony skin

 

one day he’ll wake in the hospital

or not wake up at all

he may be missed,

briefly,

 

‘seen wossname lately?’

 

a shrug and switch the subject

to footy, the weather

X Factor or Strictly

 

they’ll lay him to rest

among paupers and platitudes

for an anonymous soul,

‘known only to god’

 

Trevor had been happy in hospital

he had a friend,

they grew beans and peas and sang

when the mood was upon them

 

‘care in the community’

put paid to that

there’s no care,

no community,

for Trevor’s kind

 

with no one to love,

no one to curse

except Uncle Felix

(who may not be real)

 

and a mother to rail at -

(who was real)

she died of cancer

and despair

 

when Trevor leaves us

someone will use his bedroll,

battered trainers,

one-time jaunty bowler…

 

but think twice about the trackie

and burn the balaclava.