Spots
written by: Ray Miller
He was asleep, or pretending to be,
when we went off to swim
with the waitresses from La Marquandarie.
Those shifts at Al’s Kitchen exhausted him,
the grease, the faces that stared at his skin,
that skin no one would squeeze.
We found him lying naked in the bath,
flannel flopped on his head.
Empty bottles of pills and whisky slapped
against his pale shoulders and purple neck,
ghost ships that gathered to gape at a wreck.
I stopped the dripping tap.
An empty matchbox and cigarette pack
lay sodden on the floor.
We’d stolen from both, he must have searched the flat
for a final gasp, given up and swore
that he’d not be smoking fags any more.
Gallows humour at last.
We all wish to God that he’d stayed in Brum
and not naused up our craic.
It was me who persuaded him to come,
who promised to look out and mind his back,
then made him the butt of our jokes and flak –
faithful figure of fun.
Removing the flannel, I hoped he’d wink,
had to avert my gaze.
I’d been first to christen him Spots, I think,
and couldn’t abide the volcanic rage
of pimples erupted over his face,
now finally extinct.
