Mr 65

Poem 6 of 39

The man at number 65
had a comb-over
and lived alone.
It was all we knew, but
something made him
a magnet for our mischief
and malice.

At first, our games
were low stakes —
knock down ginger,
trampled flowerbeds,
a frantic cock-and-balls
scrawled in chalk
on his drive.

One day, however,
Johnny fed dog shit
through the letterbox, and
an angry apparition,
at the window,
watched as the boy
ran away.

Johnny vanished,
never came home,
leaving the culprit
exposed, obvious
to all — but the police,
who let Mr 65
go free.

Egged on by
our lurid tales,
a neighbourly mob
torched the house,
scourged the man,
wiped his number,
from the earth.

Decades later
Johnny turned up,
tall and tattooed.
He’d run away
to join the circus,
but ended up
a hairdresser.