Walking By

I was a quiet man, not long retired
from a quiet job, and glad to be above
Contention, out of the race
where electronic timers digitise
a micro-second's worth of failure,
and mark your credit rating down.

I was no threat to anyone,
and was astonished when the bottle hit
my head and knocked me out, and when
the jagged stump, thrust at my face,
severed the jugular as I went down
and emptied out my life into the sheugh.

It was a frightened little boy,
machoed by booze to flaunt his adulthood
who flailed and justifed his 18 years.
"Wisnae ma fault" he told the sarge,
"Fur ahwis bevvied oot ma skull,
n this auld bastard jis' walked by."

Me And Big Bine

Bine was big. BIG
and angry.
Not at specifics.
Fundamentally.
His very nature
was structured rage.

"Who ye laughin it?"
was all he asked me.

I had not laughed,
not cracked a smile,
not twitched a lip.

There was no reason
for his thumping me.

Stamping on my hands
was overkill.

I do not play piano
any more, or smile.
It is enough to type
one-finger poems
with my elbow.