Badger

Badger

on the street
they call him
“Badger”

all duffled up and derelict
laser piercing eyes
neither melancholic
nor rueful….
obligatory wizened beard

a former signalman
of the East Coast line
locomotive badges
pinned haphazard about his breast
remnant reminders
of trains gone by…..

an urban fox, who,
for half and ounce of Ready Rub
will happily point out
all the drops, the stops; the overspill shops

for two winters past
he’d bed down in the hospital furnace outbuildings
slipping through a side door
Ginger through her cat-flap
dry his clothes
and toast his toes
whilst others far less fortunate
froze

Thursday early evening
is the back of Greggs the Bakers
down crouched in the alley
with Johnny the Docker
or mumbling Mary with the steering wheel

seagulls gather mocking
also waiting for their fill
fresh loaves sometimes still warm
rainbow showered into hungry skips
and on a special day, the odd Danish
or vanilla slice
as birthdays past….

and so
shuffles off down the street
on invisible skis
coughs on cue
and yes it’s true
he likes a drink
but don’t we all have our vices?

deep in the depths of some rancid pocket
a spittled and battered harmonica
teeth marks of winters past
and door-wayed tunes
of spells to cast