The evening paper and the scuffers

brought revelation. Sammy wasn’t even

his name I discovered and the prayers  

I’d offered were misplaced and useless

or somebody else had stolen salvation.

He wore Ben Shermans, Doc Martens

and a Harrington jacket but a uniform  

isn’t a suit of armour and a five-inch blade

punctured his stuffing, left him clutching

at nothing, writhing out of his element.

Dreams of vengeance were only ephemeral

and after all he was more lighthouse than candle;

a warning of rocks not a star to follow.

I shredded Ben Shermans, buried Doc Martens

and denied all knowledge of a Keith;

not a name you’d fashion into a religion

though I like to think he died for my sake.