The morning papers and the scuffers

brought revelation. Sammy wasn't even

his name I discovered and the prayers

I'd offered were misplaced and useless

or somebody else attained salvation.

He wore a Ben Sherman, Doc Martens

and a Harrington jacket but a uniform

isn't a suit of armour and a five-inch blade

punctured a lung, left him clutching at nothing,

out of his element. Dreams of vengeance

were merely ephemeral and anyway

he was more lighthouse than candle:

a warning of rocks not a star to follow.

I tore up Ben Shermans, let others have the patches

and thrice denied that I knew of a Keith.

Not a name you'd fashion into a religion

though I like to think he died for my sake.