Jovial Johnno

At least that’s what they called him.

Always with a smiling face,

Always the teeth.

An endless, upturned crescent,

A laugh that carried, blocks away,

Rumbling round corners, flowing along the low length of side-streets,

Fluttering in the air; a cat’s purr, an idling engine,

A star to guide by.

Until the day the police came, and the crescent wavered,

It faltered; a deflating balloon.

- Mr Crawford? –

- Yes –

- Is your wife home, Mr Crawford? –

- huh? –

- Mrs Crawford, is she home? –

- I think so. Why though? What is this about –

- We just need to speak to her Mr Crawford. –

The crescent inverted.

The engine stalled.

He talks to the lawyers, trying to understand, trying to pin down the enormity.

- But murder? –

- Yes Mr Crawford –

- Sylvia’s nothing like that –

From behind bars, behind glass;

The way her bright curls have curdled,

From butter to old milk, pee stains, rotting straw.

He tries not to think like that.

Tries to still love.

- No of course not, no, never, they’ve got it all wrong –

And he has to leave her behind when visiting hours are over.

A long drive home, knowing all the way: he doesn’t believe her.

The smile is long gone.

Well, they don’t call him anything these days.

They don’t have to, since nobody calls him.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work