Walthamstow Story

A hip-hopped East London.
Bulgaria, Bhangra
and bedlam
pulsing this world.

All the gruff,
cherry red,
market boys sing.

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

Holes in his brogues,
now ten years old.
Heels down to cork,
once they clickety clicked.

His coat a wafer.
A crumpled tenner,
in a pocket that’s about to split.

It’s raining vertical.
Cats, violins and vinegar.
Needle hard and cold down the hill.

Pouring into his ears,
under the thin skin.

Poor Mickey Clemons.
Never cut out for this town.

Into the charity shop,
damp smell of cardboard.
Books nobody wants,
stacked by Beryl,
who will never be loved.

There’s music on the stereo,
the Bangles.

Who walks like an Egyptian around here?

Sweeping through the rails.
Jackets they have died in,
when they were mad and drunk.

Leatherette,
Polyester,
and gabardine mix.

Stains,
rips,
memories.

Behind him.
A deal struck on chipped cocktail glass.

Mickey grabs one off a hanger,
and Clemons slips it on,
too big,
too long.

Poor Mickey Clemons!

The music changed.
‘When Irish eyes are smiling’.

But he likes the cut of it,
two buttons,
lapels like razors,
navy blue mohair.
Saville Row maybe.

Fingers the inside pocket,
something there.

Sepia and smiling,
creased.
On the back a scribble,

‘My darling Reggie.
Kill Jack the Hat tonight.
My love,
Violet.’

The rain stopped.