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Buck Clear

He’d straddle across the street
one legged, that wooden crutch
tucked tightly under his oxter

and almost leap into our shop;
what was it he ever bought?
I could never remember.

Was he a soldier, lost his leg
against the Black and Tans? Was
that why he always seemed bitter?

His gypsy black hair was brylcreem
greased, slicked sideways; he had
sun-burnt skin, even in winter.

If we called him names and jeered
he’d make a wild ‘lep’ at us,
without a smile and without anger,

his tan overcoat swishing by.
He seemed to live in a dimension
somewhere between lightning and thunder.

Graphic and strong. Of course, your last two lines wrap it up as uniquely as your character seemed to be.
I really like the clarification in this that adds to his uniqueness:

"If we called him names and jeered
he’d make a wild ‘lep’ at us,
without a smile and without anger,"

I have such a clear sense of this guy.

Thanks for posting this here, Jimmy.
I know you have to be continuing writing,
but I miss your posting here.


~ Lizzy

Thanks Liz... but you must have missed my more recent posts here!!! Cathedral Bells, North to Newry, Connemara etc
Take care

Yep, I sure did, Jimmy. It's hit and miss for me these days. I'll find them another time, though.