He was a white South African,

built like a brick shithouse, who hovered

and stared at the burnt-out schizos

until they gave up their precious fags.

Doing them favours, he bragged, laying

down his life to lengthen theirs.

 

She was a pastor’s daughter from South-East Asia

who sang and rang bells for fun of an evening;

her skin glowed pale copper and flushed with rose

as she pondered propitious interventions.

 

I was half Jesus and half Clint Eastwood,

bounding downstairs in twos and threes, landing smack

on my other cheek as I told him to stop

throwing me round the car park like that

and wait for the posse to run him in

to a more secure  institution.

 

He’d spared my face but the blood had soaked

through my vest and shirt. She blamed herself

as she bathed and dressed. There were two

who could play at that game.