The Guy with No Face

I am the guy without a face
and I’ve been sitting here
for forty-seven years,
the remnant of a bonfire
that no-one cared to move
once all the sticks were packed way
and children gone to bed.
And so the ageing cuffs of hay
about my wooden limbs and head
have stayed slumped on this old sofa,
the only hint of Guy Fawkes night
besides my Worzel Gummdige hat.
I’ve worn to celebrate ball games
the St George flag, with rattles in my fists
and once a vuvuzela stuck between my head
and chest. A Santa hat and suit
with cotton cuffs to hide the ones of hay.
A jack-o-lantern mask
and even once a green top hat
with four-leaf clovers in the brim.
Protected from the elements by just
a canvas canopy, the house
should wonder why I’ve stayed...
Certainly they mind their step and hesitate
when asked how long I’ve been sat here,
approaching only when a person has
the bright idea to dress me up for holidays.
(Though no-one dares to paint a face.)
Am I a daemon? Wouldn’t know. All that
I know is this: the long-dead patriarch
of this old council-house retrieved me from
a skip behind a clothing store -
I fancy that displayed I wore
the cheap apparel that I see
about me all the time: hoodies and polo shirts
with joggers and trainers. A drunk,
this patriarch, he dunked me down on this
old couch and called his nervous children out;
emerging sullen, dirty-faced, they listened as
he rambled on about his find
for Guy Fawkes Day, taking off his jacket and
putting it on my pale frame.
And thus my tenancy began.
Better dads have come and gone
(and worse, to give the drunk his due),
but this old Catholic radical remains;
I sometimes wonder if I’m Guy himself,
by God’s odd mercy made to spend
the purgatorial stuck on this wilting couch,
watching the British working-class
move unrestrained by Papal writ.
But all I’ll say is what I know:
I’ve watched for almost fifty years.