Falling off the shoulders of giants

You can find Jack
off the main drag,
in some late bar
that smells of pizza,
TV turned up too loud,
beers stains on his belly.

He shouts at strangers
tells them his problems
tries to sell his magic beans,
they nod because they know
what he means.

He pawned the golden eggs
left by his mother,
for drinking money
and rolled up cigarettes'
sleeps under the damp
leaves of an abandoned
beanstalk.

Afraid of being eaten
by unfamiliar spaces
he only speaks to giants
mostly in rhyme and always
without reason.

One day soon Jack
won't come back from the market,
the Vicar will plant him in his garden
and say a few kind verses
in an unkempt corner
no one will hear the words he said.

Only an old lady carrying sticks
will see the green shoots
rising through the fresh dug earth,
followed by Jack
as he climbs above the clouds
one last time.