How Come? Poem by Jake Kraweckyj

Here's something you might like to know.

A couple of months ago,
I was on the bus back from my girlfriend's house.
Other side of Manchester from me,
so I had miles to go before I slept.
An Irish man with jug ears talked to me through a roll-up cigarette,
his flared nostrils vomiting plumes of billowing smoke.
The smell ached in the air.

He asked me what I did.
I told him I worked in a bookshop.
I didn't tell him he was a muse for this poem.

He told me he was a traffic warden,
but 'hadn't been punched by anyone yet'.

I asked him how long he had been working there.
He said 'Since last week'.

On the way back from Fallowfield,
I sat with him and he spoke to me about his troubles.
I had no troubles so I kept my mouth shut.
His troubles billowed out of his mouth quicker than the smoke did
and was probably twice as deadly.
I was the only passive listener
and for that I am glad.
I tried not to inhale.

For the ten minutes I knew him
I was hooked on his mind's smoke.