My Poetry: The Old Wild Sailor

The Old Wild Sailor

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The old wild sailor
squats on a town centre bench
cursing his luck
and every fcuk
he missed out on
with every swig of his compass
he shouts out at strangers:
Neil,
Neil,
Neil.
You can tell he knows
About every kind of death
by the way he cradles
a bottle of gut rot
like a beaten ship
in an asylum harbour
as he bawls at strangers:
Neil,
Neil,
Neil.
He hails every passer
by way of a hello
his knotted beard
bobs as he speaks
but people just keep on
following their shoes,
so he ignores their strangeness and calls:
Neil,
Neil,
Neil.
He knows every boozer
in every pub within eye shot
where he used to trade
punch-lines for whiskey chasers,
but friends he swapped rounds with
are no better than memories now;
so he just hollers:
Neil,
Neil,
Neil.
I can feel his attention
on the back of my neck
but let his calls
fall like cannonballs round my feet,
I don’t know his cries target
but I hope
someday he finds it .

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