Found in possession of a seven inch blade,
his major offence indelibly remained,
a tumble that claimed a low wood fence,
arms bent, legs driven,
lacking all kinds of natural rythmn
and he could never hum in tune.
Sliced perfumed roses off thick barbed stems,
destined for the lovers of important men.
When questioned he spoke like a full grown poet.
"I found them blown, driven white as snow
between moist stars. Where fresh mown grass colours
distant places, among a mess of syringes,
multi coloured laces, pills, thrills gesticulating faces,
those traces of happier times.
Is it too late for me to be a better person?"
They raided his flat behind The Essex Hotel
where a tiny baby's photo lay.
Wrapped in a shawl with pink hands gloved,
next to a note shoved in an empty wallet,
on which in one or two places
had been scrawled the word "love."