Corner Poet

“We are meant to be paired,

the only even prime is two,

only matching halves

can make a whole.”

The corner poet

is half-preacher,

half-madman

in a lady’s coat

and wellingtons.

If the weather turns,

he takes shelter

in the Savile:

he’s barred from other bars,

between closed banks

the charity shops

and beauticians,

where the middle class

slum it weekly

-if it’s market day

and artisan cheese

can be had for pounds

per forty grams.

Sometimes he shouts

in the market square,

from the bandstand

at the passing traffic

heading elsewhere.

I wonder where

he lost the half

that used to

make him whole?