Poor Joe

This story begins, not at the beginning, but half-way through. Now why would I do that? It concerns some of life in a day of a mean man called Joe, and Joe was mean. And Joe was mean. He would beat himself when he had been bad. He would beat the police just if he felt sad. And Joe would greet. And greet. And greet. And greet.

Poor Joe.

Poor sad and lonely Joe with nowhere to go and no friends and no respect. Had he been cheerful, had he been nice, had he said ‘thank you’ when he paid for his pies, Joe’s life might not have been the way it was now. Joe’s life might have been happier. Joe might have not lost his compassion. He may have found a wife, he may have found a job, he may. But these mays hold no sway with the reality, for Joe had begun at an early age to stand-up to his betters and to think with his fists. He spat and clawed as a young boy ought not to without good reason. And this continued until he was old enough to be officially excluded. And then he’d gone into business for himself and never turned to anyone for help. Not because he was not scared, Joe felt nothing but loneliness throughout his career. A person might see Joe coming and see his scars and his cauliflower ears and his hated knuckles and his turkey neck and think to themselves, ‘’Arry, I ought not to be a-waiting by myself outside this ‘ere pub but ought to nip away around this corner out of sight and out of mind’. Dear Harry. And nip he would and Joe would saunter on by pleased that he made grown men hide. He cried at home and kissed his dog behind the ears.

Drab Joe’s tumult began each day at four past six in the morning with a walk of Rocker to the beat of his heels and the pace of the bird-song.