Trip over the feet of the man at ‘Marks’, fast asleep in the doorway, a pretence of a lay-by on a street where the days fly away
a cardboard canopy for cover,
we don’t know how lucky we are.
Familiar sounds of the family around me,
turkey and the trimmings, brimming with joy
toys for the children and the Queen on the TV
don’t know how lucky we are.
On the morning of the Nazarene in
the shadows of the halogen
I see him again
in the doorway
which seems so far away from
this Christmas day.
And how lucky I am not to be
the ‘Marks’ man
in the cold of December.
I only remember in fragments the
guttural and statements made in my haste
or in moments of stress,
the man at ‘Marks’ is not well
does not dress well
or smell nice, but it would be nice if
we could be nice to people like him
who are people like us and if they cuss you
and curse you then more fool you to think it’s
aimed at you,
No need to make a song and dance about it
just stop for a bit and
offer a smile, a sandwich, a tea,
we don’t know how lucky we are
but he does.
© 2015, John Smallshaw.