ZIMMIE

sign by the door said “if you MUST
have your sunday times, the boat leaves at noon.”
and  he wasn’t ever sweet,
that i saw.

except in those fine little picture postcards,
musta been hundreds of em, took em with a brownie,
i heard, when brownies still had
the good optics.

i once lost a lens cap, and he rooted round
under his counter until he found one to fit.
never a hint of smile,
that i saw.

zimmie was vinegar, in my memory,
but that mixed well with the sweetness outside,
white hair and brows, eyes hard and clean,
like they could cut.

and the coffee smelt as good as whiskey,
and the talk was warm and funny in that store
in the morning but never sweet
that i could tell.

Matt Williamson