There But For...

It wasn’t Winnie the Pooh
humming quietly to himself,
just a fragmented childhood
simpering to the surface.
He maybe didn’t know
the Inca words he mumbled
with their sprigs of hope
and splashes of gold,
tumbling down his Mayan steps
straight out of Raiders…

He listened
though to what we didn’t find out,
he looked pin-sharp
definitely not one slice short.
His grey gushing moustache
dazzled with Santa Claus charm.
In fact, almost every angle
tainted him Mr proper bloke,
king of the normals,
yet still he shuffled
some micro-waltz for one,
spinning and spinning,
a lone dervish,
on the crowded
pavement of life.

Jerry Pike