The house we lived in for five years
in slummy Dumbarton
was almost falling down.
Everything had a padlock and chain.
Above us were fights each night.
Chairs broken like matches
and the wife sporting a black eye.
‘I slipped’ – defiantly.
Every Friday night
her husband would doll himself
by the one rayed mirror
in his suit sharp as a razor.
Every Friday night
he’d be beaten up
by swarming Catholics
for cursing the good Pope
robed in his Vatican
under the Italian blue
and far from the hubbub
of that fierce provincial pub.
Every Saturday morning
her blacked eye would shine
like a new sin
in her unvanquished face.
Scrubbing the marble cinema steps…
her husband strolling by
unemployed and spry
wearing his blue suit
with the blood scrubbed away.
Nothing green, I remember,
but for the innocent eyes
calm and murderous.