Saturday, 19 April 2014

Bus note 95

        Pink porkpie
        with plasticky dogtooth band.
Jacket's frayed
and heavy tweed.
        The falling down houses
        hold up just.
A swig of Frosty Jack's
        and another swig
down burnt red throat
with sparse white hairs.
        The mower and clippers
        he does the rounds with;
mensch testimony.
        Outside Wilf Gilbert's,  
mangy blossom petals
flatten beneath
shod feet.


  1. Those falling down houses sound familiar enough to us. "Standing up just", almost, on the better days, maybe. Odds to be determined round here?

  2. The punters ought to be more considerate of the mange petals popping out of the pavement cracks, methinks.

    But how can mere chance mean anything, to one girded against all circumstance by Frosty Jack's?

  3. Wilf Gilbert's is something of a midlands institution. I've been trawling the net for a sign they have outside some of the shops with the tag line "The Honest Bookie" below a picture of some sad faced ragamuffin with his pockets turned out: no luck.

    Frosty Jack's is certainly a fighting spirit; a cider that knows nothing of apples (or fruit of any kind for that matter).