Keith FentonToddler with a lollipop, jumping off the kerb
between parked cars outside the kebab shop.
Phone shop altercation ends with pushing,
laughter and joshing. Shakes of the head.
Frowning women finger mint-green silk
a man has pulled from a long coal-black coat.
A dull blue Clio, S Reg, rust, bonnet up.
The driver, from, I’m guessing now,
Somalia? Maybe 30, infants in car seats –
did she once only know the cracking heat
of a hungry desert, or would she
and her friends jaunt up an escarpment before
a shrieking run down, wind flashing her face,
whipping at the hem of her headscarf,
quivering rivulets of cool within? – now
the sands have shifted and her car is a skip
outside Europa Foods;
A slate grey Nissan,
Y Reg, no rust, bonnet up. The driver,
from, I’m guessing now, Iraq? Maybe 58,
weight collecting round his equator, the bite
of his crocodile clamps on her battery –
has every man who has come to her aid
been as kind?
Two women stroll towards the Lane from
Foundry Approach, laughter and chatter,
cool shades… I’m guessing now, Bajan? Maybe
60, perhaps one Bajan, one Kittian, came as kids
in the sixties, never dreamt they’d be
the old money here one day.
A stick dodders off the kerb,
then a foot, the foot and the stick ease back,
a crooked snow-haired man,
I’m guessing now, Irish? Maybe 90.
Maybe 70 and he’s just fucked –
he’d the craic alright when he got here in 72, the boys had money in their pockets, pints of plain in their bellies and the colleens were warm and soft, now he can’t step off the kerb and look at the cars at the same time and the boys are all memories now.
Kittian woman –
or is it the Bajan? – stops and tells her friend to wait,
goes to help the old buachaill
toddle to the other side.
