KIngs of the street

a poem about the kind of old mediterranean men who play cars outside in the warm sunshine.

 

Kings of the street

 

 

 

They used to sit at that table those old grey men,

Sipping there coffee those masters of Zen.

 

Card games on weekends.

Crosswords in the day.

Dominos on Thursdays.

 

They were men of leisure; each day to those men were a day of pleasure.

 

I used to run past them kicking a football, when I was a young boy.

Those old grey men would shout

 “Show us your moves little Pele of the street”.

 

My mum told me they were from the Mediterranean.

A hot dry land of olives and wine.

 

As I grew older the old men lost there appeal, I would ask them

“Why do you sit each day, have you lost the will?

 

But they just smiled back at me, idly smoking there cigars

And said

“Pele of the street you have much to learn”.

 

I cut my knee one summer’s day I sat on the pavement and cried.

But I was in safe hand as the old grey men were near bye.

I know a trick one said to me, come hear young boy and let me stick this rizla on your knee.

 

My friends ignored those men they said I was boring, but I didn’t care I wanted to taste that drink that I could smell on their breath,

The aroma of aniseed.

  

Now I’m a man in a terrible rush.

No stopping must always be on time.

Seconds.

Minutes.

Hours.

Never a moment to spare.

 

Sometimes I think about them and laugh.

They new a secret to life, they were kings of the street,

Those old grey men.

 

Reviews

[L]

I like the contrast between the young and old and their mutual fascination for each other. Man in a terrible rush you may be, but maybe in your stopping to observe all this you've learnt something of the secret of these kings.