He rises up off the dump like rising damp,
with a reek that comes at you
out of the swamp of his face, and fixes you
with his glittering eye.
You are only a boy, but a boy
with coins in your pockets, shillings that jingle
up Vale Street and give you away
as a man of means.
He leans into you, cranking his bones down
from a height, his stare so close
you can see the hair in his nose, and catches
your elbow in one skinny hand.
You anticipate the demand he will make
and shake your head, denying the coins
you have saved for a Beano, a gobstopper,
aniseed balls, Parma violets and Spangles.
He rears up and hisses. They say
he is a vampire, they say he killed a boy,
he eats rats when he can’t find children,
he escaped from the Mental
so you stand very still when he swoops
back to get you. His hair tangles with yours.
He turns away, done with you, thirsty
to drink the blood of something, a rat
or a bat, and you are sprung like a rat
out of a trap, gone like a rat
up a down-spout. When you burst
into the shop the bell jangles
so hard Mrs Williams is warned
that you won’t help a mate
with a pound when he’s down
but the burden is an albatross
you can live with when you weigh it up
against the liquorice allsorts,
the gobstoppers, the Spangles.