www.peterloopoets.com

Peterloo Poets, Poetry Publishers, Calstock, Cornwall

Nasty, British and Short
Ann Alexander

Ann Alexander, who lives in Cornwall with her husband, worked as an advertising copywriter in London for many years, and lately taught advertising skills at Falmouth College of Arts.

Three men on a bench

Mac’s the first to come. Sags, sits,
adjusts his bags, his dog. Half past breakfast.
Already broken a promise, three by-laws, wind
from the north, and he reckons it’s Friday.
The tin in his hand, corpse cold -
yet heat rips through him as he gulps
the liquid, jerks to puzzled life.
Two cans and a roll-up down

the path comes Dan, shivering hot.
They grunt acceptance, hunch, eye out
for that mad bastard Diz who’s late,
or else them bastard cops; that tosser,
sat here yesterday on this, their bench,
and wouldn’t shift - I pay my tax, do you?
he said, although they eff him, blind him, kick
this bleedin habit soon -
Diz shuffles up, grunts, stops, sits.
Seven beers and two joints down
with all the world. At two they sleep,
crumpled on the seat; three guys, one dog,
waiting for Bonfire Night.

Nothing left but anger, and this bench.
Don’t matter if the brass plate on it says
in memory of Ethel Jones, who loved this view.
They glare through blear at tennis courts,
houses, cafes, all the things they never had
the knack for: wives, jobs, kids, health, home
is this bench now.

Our bench.
Three men wake up, stare down the world.
Our bench. Not yours nor effin Ethel’s nor
some other bastard’s. Ours. You heard.
Now give us your bastard change

is not an option, any more.
Move on, the copper says.
Move on now lads. Move on.

‘