Just Chillin Poem by Sheena Blackhall

He's sitting on the park bench near the fence
Just chillin, like a scraggy Mina bird
Beak-nosed and stubble chinned, bare to the waist
His small pot-belly, flops above his pants
The laces of his trainers are untied
His old-man's navel sags, a sunken fig
His greasy baseball cap is back to front
He's dreaming he is once more Mr Big.

The park runs right beside the back street shops,
Dog turds and lovers sunbathe on the grass
A scrawny cat dismembers day old chops,
Thrown out from Big Dave's fast food takeaway
There every day, Old Jock mops down the floors
Eking his pension out, and earning beers

Each noontime takes his break on a park bench
Spits on the gravel, mouths off at the queers.
He was a golfer once, a pro, they say
It sort of spoiled him that, life off the course
Was like cold porridge, wasn't to his taste.
Refused to lift a tool, or push a pen

After a while, his fame wore out, like jeans
Split in the knees. Now, nothing seemed to fit
His name no longer served to bum him drink
Wife, kids long gone, he rents a cheap bed-sit
It has a bed, a table, and a chair
A small TV that flickers off and on

He mops the floor at Big Dave's takeaway
To pay to feed its small electric sun
Divorce, the final battle she has won