Old What's His Name...

On three-legged stool,
outside New Cross Station;
‘I Am the New Jesus’
written on his T-shirt –
five-stringed banjo
at his feet.

A doe-eyed, kind of mangy,
jet-black Lab, paws
his precious hold-all...
‘Slazenger’ it says.
Bulging at the seams;

piles of endless days
stuffed inside. Tied up
in knots; colour-run
casualties – frayed
at the seams...

fragments of shattered dreams,
of broken promises, of ships
that never did come in.
‘Jesus loves you, son.
Oh, yes he does,’ he sings.

I toss him a coin, maybe two;
a bummed cigarette,
probably the nearest
he’ll get to heaven.

‘Bless you, son,’ he says...
picks up his bag and walks;
a pair of unlaced Nikes
stirring up the dust. Blood,
from a crown of thorns,
stains the streets.

Away, on the next block,
a siren, intermittently, wails;
his dog, pees up a lamppost.
People talked about him,
when he was gone.