THE FLATS (2): ANGRY GIRL
Bow-legged, like her bull-terrier,
she patrols along St. Martin’s Street;
glowers at any “foreigners” she meets,
swigs from her can of super-lager.
Her bull-terrier terrifies me;
she terrifies me. Head shaved
at the sides, spikes on top;
her small, shrunken figure,
her fierce face, emanate
I come within range of her sight.
The glittering orbs converge, assess,
recognise, accept me. “Alright?”
She tells me about one of her mates:
burgled, place ransacked, hit on the head
by some sort of axe; left for dead.
How is he? “Still in hospital, mate.”
I ask about a man I’ve not seen for a while.
“He’s been dead six months now, mate!”
She aims her right hand at her left arm,
mimes the pumping action of a syringe.
“Too much of that, weren’t it!
I don’t do no drugs; don’t want to, neither”
she fiercely insists. I refrain
from observing the can in her fist.
Hubbub on the street, next morning:
she shouts, swears, howls in misery.
“Have you seen my dog? Someone’s stole him!
Some bastard’s took him!” She sits,
feet in the gutter; accosts every passer-by.
“Have you seen my dog?” wipes
her sleeve across her eyes.
I feel sorry for her; she is desolate.
I steer clear of her, I fear for her fate;
this young woman, seemingly
so filled with hate.
In my last posting, I said that I am currently engaged in writing a series of poems based upon scenes and incidents happening in the flats around me. “Angry Girl” is the second poem in the series. It’s based upon an encounter that happened during last summer, but remains vivid in my memory. I haven’t seen the central character for quite a while, now. I hope she’s alright, but she’s one of those people who provoke strong reactions, and – as I say in the poem – I fear for her fate.