Man Down

Argyle street curving downhill-
one long bend of red-bricked terrace
from top-end pub, past Bernie's shop,
down to Sissy's house.

I'm off the afternoon bus,
in step with my youth and sunlight 
when I see a man down-
grey raincoat mid-road
set down in some dead-zone
demanding to be noticed.
 
The empty street averts its frontage,
dogs refuse to sniff,
no coal-lorry comes to wake the houses.

"Man Down!" the body shouts unmoving
as I side-step away from him.
"Here I am - Man Down.
Notice how I fall from grace."

But the street is knowing,
will not pander to weakness
shutting doors with a bible's thump.
And I skirt around denial,
a no-good Samaritan side-stepping the issue.

"Man Down" your silence shouts
over-turning my deaf ears
all these years later.

How we demonized your profligacy.
Invented wild threats of breaking and entering.
Sissy demonstrated the heavy bolts
behind the outer door that night,
promised no admittance from the street,
no allowance for prodigal sons.

But when I woke next morning,
there you were again - man down,
somehow asleep beside me
and all the clocks ticking soundly.