I chose to sit on the bench, not with intent,
But by chance or with fate,
Whichever of those shadows
Decided and guided me that day.

A stranger, beside me he sat
With torn overcoat, and a hat
That covered his eyes
Like some sort of disguise.

On top of his whiskers
And behind a mat of a beard
He looked damp, cramped.
I labelled him a tramp.
To my shame,
I packaged him with a name.
As soon as I gargled the thought
A door in my mind
Slammed shut.
Connections were cut.

It was dark on my side of the door
So with heart pounding and voice floundering
I turned the knob and I spoke,
“It’s certainly been warm this morning”.

A barb of light, a shaft of hope
Illuminated, Saturated a corner of my mind.
Warmth sprayed like neon waves
Around the frame of my door.

I jammed in my foot,
“They say it’ll rain
This weekend once again”
I relaxed, sat back.
The door swung open in my mind
Now all could fly out,
And inside
I sat back in pride

Then he opened his mouth
And he croaked
With a voice that crackled
He spoke…

“My name is Sid,
give us a couple of quid
Just for a bite, and a cup of summat
To warm me inside.”

Well – you know what they’re like.
They spend it on liquor
And quicker than your eyes can flicker
Every nicker’s gone on drugs.

“To warm me inside” – indeed.
We know what he means
We all know the score,
what it’s all for.
I simply said “No”,
got up to go
And bang went the door.
In darkness once more.

If he was a poet
A philosopher, a musician,
I’d have paid a few pounds
To sit on the ground
And listen for a while.
I’d have sat with a smile,
Enjoying his eccentricity
Marvelling at his electricity.

I’d have told all my friends
Over a bottle of wine
Of money, of time - well spent
Of how much it meant to me.

I returned to the bench the next day
With something to do
and nothing to say
But Sid had long gone away.

I left a couple of quid on the floor
I don’t know why or what for
But just to be sure
I bolted the door.