Stains of Dignity

 
As I left the train in Inverness station
a tall thin man walked up from the exit doors.
Asked me if I had a pound. Gave no reason. Like staring at the sun,
he blinked quick and stared.
I asked him his name and he said Jasper.
Jasper? Yeah, Jasper. Told him I knew a Jasper once. He said yeah?
I said, yeah: he was a junkie, got his skull kicked in.

He had a warmer complexion than me.
Like the homeless, he had no tact, but they don't need it;
they're already conditioned and swallowed.
People don't go to hell then lie. Jasper was a liar,
but he could see as I looked on him that there's no point.

He had hope and steam so I dropped three pounds
in his quick hand, to help him dribble to the gutter
so he can bounce back an honest man one day
or not at all — not the window, but transparency;
beg or answer. He said thank you, and I'm not sure he meant it.