He’s gained the label ‘Flicker.’
Rather scruffily dressed with baggy trousers
And hands in pockets.
Regularly stood on the busy corner by Woolworths,
Mostly during peak times.
Human tides parted to give him space,
Or to avoid his intense stare.
Like twin lasers his eyes
Would lock, at random it seemed,
To the eyes of anyone passing.
The reciever freezes for a second,
Then carries on, with a feeling of intrusive assault.
Flicker’s shoulder length dreadlock hair,
Frames mascara’d eyes and grimy face.
Flicker wears a poet's blouse,
As a backdrop to many chain necklaces.
He looks adult/youngish.
Flicker wears high heeled black leather boots,
With baggy trousers tucked in.
Flicker is a man or a woman or an alien.
Why do they call ‘it’ Flicker?
Because his deeply pocketed fingers
Continually flick ………..
Pocket to pocket, rythmic, alternate,
Then the stare locks on.
Flicker doesn’t or can’t speak.
Flicker doesn’t dance, sing or do tricks.
Flicker doesn’t have a hat for donations.
No one offers donations, no one dares.
Even strangers avoid if they can
But the road is too busy to cross,
So they go with the tide.
Walk wide.
The story goes, that if one’s eyes meet with Flickers’,
Then one will surely fight for one’s life and
Shortly thereafter.
Lose.
There’s an old man, a Grandad,
Who lives with his descendant family,
Daughter, Son in Law, two little girls.
Henry’s in his nineties,
Remembers most things and forgets most.
So, what do I, Son in Law, believe …………
He told me one evening, over sherry,
By the fireside, when we were alone,
Wife and children asleep.
It was only two weeks ago, he told me
About his ‘lock on’ with Flicker,
In 1939.
As he wove his story,
My mind went back to the many times
I had split with the human tide.
Now, my eyes were open wide.
Grandad Joe, called up for war.
Along with so many.
He was caught midstream,
Towards Charles Street, towards Woolworths.
He was young, he was jostled and pushed,
And he became ‘locked on’ with Flicker’s eyes.
Next he knew he was signing forms,
Being given papers,
Where to go, who to see, who to be.
In 1939, Grandad Joe delivered for a baker.
Delivering bread to rows of houses.
A baker’s boy’s eyes met Flicker’s eyes,
And shortly thereafter, Joe was called up
Became a seasoned soldier.
Became a different man.
Flicker lost this one.
That’s how Grandad Joe sees it anyway.
And that’s how I saw it …………
’til Grandad told me, ‘n’ then I felt chest pains.
I’m laptopping this,
From my bed,in intensive care ………….
I have family, daughters …………..
I think they should know,
Maybe one, also, should know this story,
Maybe it’s nothing.
This message has been edited by WondersmithWest from IP address 68.144.74.112 on Dec 28, 2003 2:13 PM
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