Sparky

You know who I mean...you must
have seen him...mangy mutt in tow –
come rain or shine – in the park.
Took him half an hour each way;
coughing up his lungs – fighting
for breath...He wouldn’t mind
if he’d ever been a smoker, but
he’d never touched the one. Unlike
his dad – a twenty-a-day man –
died in his sleep, aged ninety-five.

A wooden bench – hard by the gate,
coat done up with a length of string...bible
in hand. A believer of sorts, although
of late, he’d prayed to another god –
one of the gold or silver kind; tin mug
by his side; well – one can only live
in hopes, and some folk did drop him
a quid or two, sometimes. Not his fault
if he’d had a run of bad luck.

He’d had high hopes all those years
ago. A far cry indeed from a shipyard
on the Clyde where he ended up
a ‘sparky’ working on them big mothers
of boats. Pensioned off early though;
mesothelioma. He knew he could ‘go’...
any time, but he paid it no heed;
“‘Carpe diem’ and all that crap,”
he used to say.

Even still, before he left the hostel
of a morning, he’d always glance
in the mirror; wave, ‘Goodbye’,
to the lad he saw there...the one
ran, barefoot, across Popes Meadow
paper-kite in hand, with dreams
of becoming a pilot...The one
sat in the park to shake his mug,
to close his eyes to fly.