Poem: Old school chum

'Wally Watkins puts me up...'

Wally Watkins puts me up

for forecourt pump attendant

twoandsix an hour plus tips

8 am Sunday sharp. And suddenly:

I’m out there, on parade, boiler-suited

rattling nozzles into thirsty tanks

mopping windscreens, smiling at the world

empathising with the woes of all.

Backstage, I’m promoted tea boy,

handed tiny teabags which carefully I open

making gritty tea to laughter and derision

demoted back to wiping down the pumps.

And then the whole and mad chaotic

world comes at me: night trains

into Europe, Athens, Istanbul

back street English teaching, Suez

demonstrations, nuclear fears 

Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Jews,

and quirky Quakers quacking homespun

prayers for Fox’s quintessential tribe.

Then Wally \Watkins emails me out of Canada

‘Long time no see. I’m Good’ and asks me how I’m 

doing after 70 years, how life is treating me. I suck 

my remaining teeth: ‘Wally, It’s a mystery and a gift.’

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