Outreach Poem by Nick Burbridge

Tom got by with what H.G. Wells
wrote of a horse in difficulty,
a random redistribution of his legs,
extreme facial expressions
and rotation of the head.
Yet, if you bent your smooth neck
in passing and called 'right, Tom? ,
he would make a complex halt
and bellow, 'right mate!

Tom hit a bad patch at the care co-op
where he loved and lost Belinda,
entirely without legs, a trunk of sharp pains,
and no inclination to take it in good heart.
He had to watch as her wires failed
and she fell silent in her steel chair.
His interest in carpentry and baskets dwindled
and, hailed on brief journeys, he answered,
but without his customary verve.

Tom appeared on St. James' Street
in a motor-buggy, driving carefully,
neutral expression, perfectly still legs.
Met with the mantra, his eyes remained set,
and he made no answer,
as if he needed his powers to concentrate.

The last time I saw him, to speak to,
was the day of the Family Parade
when bamboo and crepe-paper tribes of sea monsters,
pirates and cockle-shells multiplied in the streets.
Tom careered down the pavement trying to hit people,
collided with an alcoholic near the chemist
and lashed out with his sticks.
Some starfish intervened while I retraced my steps,
to meet, as if by accident, with a 'right mate?

He brought the buggy to a smooth halt
and hit me, askew, with one glance,
unscrewing the vortex of years:
his one love pinned in enraged stasis
only to expire as he dreamed her release;
the loss of his own redistributive movements;
the irk and trespass of the man in the street,
charitable projections, inward sighs of relief.
He said quietly: What do you think? Sod off-

These days I withhold inquiries.
I've been having meetings
in the American-style coffee-shop
with local bodies on innovative pieces -
short films perhaps - about the contrast
between disadvantage and conceit.
I have subjects pencilled in.
One has to tread carefully.
But, believe me, tears will be shed.

Tom, meanwhile,
motors independently,
up and down, outside.