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Tony Connor

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A Midnight In Manchester

A moment on the Last Bus
returns to me now - as if
manhood began to take place
when I noticed that long loaf
sticking like a plump phallus,
braided, varnished and stiff,
from Mr.Greenberg’s embrace,
where he sat, nodding off.

How old was I - seventeen?
Bog-eyed with booze and brain-sex,
after a night on the town
drinking among dirty jokes
with Dave and Eddie and John,
I sat there full of dislikes:
for Greenberg, the bus, the rain,
my mother, my flesh, my books.

The old man shuddered upright,
opened his eyes wide and smiled,
waggling the loaf in salute
when he saw his neighbour’s child
(erst-while urchin of the street,
turned lanky, sullen, self-moiled)
facing him in a dull fret
across the bus-aisle’s damp cold.

Yet, who was I to refuse
Mr. Greenberg, the baker,
homeward-bound with his bonus
of fresh bread and buns to spare!
He croaked something in Yiddish
and tossed a bag through the air,
gesturing in emphasis
while I grabbed, lurched, juggled, swore

and slumped back, nursing the catch -
Eccles-cakes warm in my hands.
Woozy; weak with self-reproach
and vague spites, I felt my mind
modifying itself a touch,
towards kindness long-disowned;
but I held my sulky slouch,
not wishing to understand.

Then we were both up and off
and out in the drizzling rain!
Mr. Greenberg, the long loaf
hidden down his gaberdine;
and I, staggering, aloof,
pretending to be alone -
though his friendly arm and laugh
helped me home, my mother’s son.

 


Tony Connor was born in the north of England, where he lived until he was forty. Since 1971 he has lived and worked in the USA. His eighth collection of poems, Metamorphic Adventures appeared (Anvil Press) in 1996.

 

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