The Song of Mickey Clemons

The soundtrack 
of a hip-hopped London. 

Bulgaria, 
Bhangra and 
bedlam. 

All the gruff, cherry red 
market boys sing along.

‘Oranges and lemons, 
poor Mickey Clemons,
 not a penny in his pocket,
 a shirt upon his back’.

Holes in the brogues, 
That are ten years old. 
Heels down to cork 
and a coat of wafer. 

A crumpled tenner 
in a pocket that’s about to split.

It rains vertical. 
Needle hard. 
Cats, 
violins 
and vinegar. 

Cold down the hill, 
the view is slate grey. 
Skeletons march. 

Lowry never came here.
Not once saw this
Walthamstow boy.

'Poor Mickey Clemons. 
Never cut out for this town.'

Into a charity shop, 
the smell of cardboard. 
Books stacked by the unloved. 

Music on the stereo, 
'The Bangles'. 
Who walks like an Egyptian here? 

Outside, 
women scream. 
Mickey sighs, 
picks up a vase.

A deal struck 
a chipped cocktail glass.
Through the rails. 
Jackets they have died in,
 or bought when they were mad.

Leatherette, 
polyester 
and gabardine mix.

Stains, 
rips, 
history. 

Grabs one off a hanger, 
and Mickey slips it on, 
too big. 

He likes the cut of it,
two buttons, 
and lapels like razors. 

Saville Row maybe. 

He fingers the breast pocket,
 something there. 

He fingers a photo, 
sepia, 
creased.

On the back a scribble.
‘My darling Reggie. 
Kill Jack the Hat tonight. 
My love,
Violet.’

The rain has stopped.