Three Geckos for an Ipad

He’s Steve.
You’ll find him here
tucked in,
between fresh terracotta
slapped on concrete
and claw marks
on drainpipes.

His school friends are
the policeman
(with the commendation)
and the businessman
(with the platinum MasterCard)
their wives,
platinum blonde
come in to chat brag
as he snips and slices
at their split ends.

A hairdresser.
He might dress hair
but he’ll always be a Sir
to his mum.

He’s Steve.
You’ll find him here
slotted,
between leaky taps
and broken hair.

Mention anything but the missus.
“You off anywhere nice this year?”

Turns out she was.
Last he heard she was bouncing
on the bollocks
of a Greek waiter
named Diablo.

He never did like tzatziki.

“Fuck women mate,
you can have yourself one of these,”
Ten Quid Terry peeled back
the door of his white transit van

one hundred sticky eyes
slit with jet black
blinked back at Steve,
hairdresser from Salford
scouring pad chin
touch too much Paco Rabanne.

“They don’t nag and you’ll
never
have to buy them shoes,”
an elastic tongue
slipped
out of the gecko’s lips.

“I’ll take two. A breeding pair.”

He’s Steve.
You’ll find him here
Caught,
between the dustpan
and the brush.
But he won’t work late these days
he’s needed elsewhere.

His faded wallet
empty of
tens twenties fifties
stuffed instead with snaps
six for a tumble drier
two for a West Wing box set.

Two hundred he’s got now
and a bearded dragon.

“See, the trouble with a
breeding pair is,
they breed,
pairs.”