Modris sits on the warm doorstep,
Wearing a pullover knitted
By his blind sister.
He grins at fresh girls clip-clopping
In high, platform shoes
Down the sun-blurred street;
Tut-tuts at the old Indian
Doctor's sons playing
Football against a garage door;
Accepts homemade cake
From the young wife across the road;
Gives children hot mints;
Asks me about Keats.
Goes in about ten in the night.

I live three houses away.
Midnight, I can hear him coughing.


Peter Thabit Jones © 2016

Published in THE LIZARD CATCHERS by Peter Thabit Jones, 2006