Status

As the boys play football in the park,
he sits on the wooden bench and watches,
in Gore-Tex jacket with Rolex and his baldness
hidden by transplanted hair. They squabble
over who shall control the ball.
Almost teenagers, they're too old
for the park this year, show what they see now
in roundabouts by whacking the ball against one,
wind swings to the top, test strength
against see saw and criticise the police.

They don't notice him or how
his moleskin trousers ridden up just show
the grooves on his shins, each enough
of a slot for a pound coin or the front
of a hard shoe, old injuries
like the once broken finger still twisted
and the squint nose from when he was punched,
because he didn't fit in, always listened to fifties pop
and chose adults before the acquaintance of boys
his age.

No sign of his awkwardness now
as he slips into the Jaguar round the corner
and the next day takes the lift up
to the mirrored windows of the footwear giant
and the meeting where people quieten
when he enters the room, look at him
and the image of the logo'd trainer
that the boys will each buy for a week's wages
from dropping off ad's and local newspapers.



Colin