Anthracite

This old man looks at me

Sittin in his doorway in Ipswich

A cold night for him but he still smiles

I give him 3 dollars for a coffee

Its not enough for a beer

Just a hot drink and maybe yesterdays pie

For 22 days I see him and smile back

And give him 3 dollars each time

For a hot drink and maybe a pie

He is not a burden to anyone

And his stories are deeper than the shop owner

He tells me of his life and his unseen sacrifice

So I give him 3 dollars

Enough for a coffee but not a beer

Coz beer round here is 4 dollars

Every night he is in the doorway

Sheltering and telling me

I’m ok boy, just corker

So I give him 3 dollars

Enough for a coffee but not a beer

One day I am sad, he is not there but its later in the day

So I go for a walk and stop up the road

To watch the footy and have a beer

And there is the old man

Coz the the beer up here is only 3 dollars.

Amazingly one foot follows the other

as I look down and see my path

through the trees and grass

with a light wind stumbling beside me

trees whisper secrets that send spikes

of paranoia and guilt of something

but leaves tumble around me

like baby puppies

searching for their mother

and I smile for the idea of it

such softness on my skin

such softness in my thoughts

such luck to realise this unseen gift.

He didn’t let on if he knew I was there

I was fixated on his strength

and his appetite

he had his victim in his jaws

and the crunching of the victims skeleton

made me shiver and be happy for the distance

I could see the victims legs desperately kick

but the jaws were without mercy and purposeful

and as the last bit of body disappeared into his throat

he turned and looked at me and I wanted to feel horror

his eyes bored into me like a king at small folk

and they told me the truth of all life

“I’m a Gecko, it’s my job”

I grip the plastic bag and rip with all

my might and the satisfactory sound

of ripping graces my pleasure sensors

I stand and struggle, fighting

the last death throws are evident

but it does not give up

All I want is to put onions

in its belly to stop them

rolling around my trolley

People watch the vocal struggle

as I pull and blow at the opening

and I long for their cheer

I place both hands at the opening

and rub like I want to start a fire

there is a crack of weakness

At last there is an opening

I do not hesitate and with glee

I rip my prize open with pride

Take that my face says

and I look at others in the store

don’t mess with me

Securely parcelled in my trolley

I casually walk away like a hero

Now, where’s those bloody sausages.