The Airedale Centre,
Keighley.
91.
You walked the tiled aisles
Tramped.
I remember you as short.
Hunched over.
Overcoated.
Sockless feet
Scabbed and scarred and ingrown
Wedged in slip-on sandals.
Well meaning, condescending
Charitable ladies
Would offer you a pound.
A chocolate bar.
A cup of tea.
You snarled:
“Don’ need. Don’ wan’.”
And tramped
Away
Leaving them clutching their rejected guilt.
And suddenly you’d gone.
The local paper featured you next day:
“Banned! A familiar figure.”
It was clear they’d tried to interview you
Received the same responses
You gave to coins and sweets and cups of tea
“Don’ need. Don’ wan'”
They speculated you had come from Poland.
Your name was Janek, Polback, maybe Kosz.
The manager, the villain of the piece
Had said you put off paying customers
And banned you from the centre.
Days later you were back;
Your scabbed, carbuncled feet encased in new, blue, woolly socks.
I wondered who had got you to accept them.
What bargain had been struck.
Tom Juniper Poetry 