The Disappearance of  John J. Dyer

(another try at this one)

 

Mr Dyer, in rainbow shorts, plump

and pink under a palm tree, smiles

as he pats Miss Burtenshaw’s rump,

golden grains of sand on the beach

flowing through his open fingers.

 

Soft over rooftops a lullaby’s heard

as Dyer dreams of the one-armed bandit

in the back bar of  his favourite pub

that laughs out coins at his neat ledgers.               

But a cold wind whistles up the street

ahead of the march of abacus men

who don’t see the scouring waters

sucked down road gullies to the sea

washing away the fag-ends of days;

don’t see the source of seed corn

ripening in the fields at five percent;

don’t see the shoes on childrens feet,

or fingers combing long blond hair,

twenty pound notes under a pillow

to get off the game that men must play.

In the early hours, as lung-mist rises

out the mouths of marsh-fat cattle,

Mr Dyer looks back at the small boy

 in the mirror, pulls out a grey hair,

puts on a grey face for the faceless,

and in polished leather shoes walks out

past the privet he clipped last Sunday

before church and buttered crusty roll.

He can hear the auctioneer’s song

counting up the cows future,

counting down his working days.

The palmist in drag looks for silver

and figures don’t figure anymore

in flesh, just foreclosures.

 

As the town clock strikes five

a younger Mr Dyer locks the door

and turns away, in his briefcase

a plane ticket and panties

for pretty Miss Burtenshaw.

 

 

 

 

 

The Disappearance of  John J. Dyer

 

Mr Dyer, in rainbow shorts, plump

and pink under a palm tree, smiles

as he pats Miss Burtenshaw’s rump,

golden grains of sand on the beach

flowing through his open fingers,

his banks ready-cash out of reach

of the head-office money men.

 

His poor parents had scrimped and saved

to give a posh school education

Then proud as a pig on his elevation

as head of the bank in Market Street

with a somber suit and mahogany desk.

His elders and betters bowed to his face,

with invites to dinner or days at the races.

To touch him up for a low-rate loan

meet at  The George of an afternoon.

Tonic old boy, with a gin or two.

A spit and shake should sign the deal

from a country gentleman such as you.

 

Soft over rooftops hangs a lullaby of lsd

as Mr Dyer dreams of the one-armed

bandit  in the back bar of The George

that laughs out coins at his neat ledgers.

But a cold wind whistles up the street

ahead of the march of abacus men

who don’t see the scouring water

sucked down road gullies to the sea

taking away the fag-ends of days,

don’t see the source of seed heads

ripening in the fields at five percent,

or fingers tangled in long blond hair

twenty pound notes under a mattress

to get off the games men must play.

 

In the early hours, as lung-mist rises

out the mouths of marsh-fat cattle,

Mr Dyer looks back at the small boy

 in the mirror, pulls out a grey hair,

puts on a grey face for the faceless,

and in polished leather shoes walks out

past the privet he clipped last Sunday

after church and buttered crusty roll.

He can hear the auctioneer’s

song counting up the cows future;

counting down his working days.

The palmist in drag looks for silver.

Figures don’t figure anymore

in flesh, just foreclosures.

As the town clock strikes eleven

a younger Mr Dyer locks  the door

and turns away, in his briefcase

 a plane ticket and panties

for pretty Miss Burtenshaw.

 

 

This was written in memory of a bank manager who changed the course of my life forty year ago when he lent me every penny to buy my farm, with the only security a handshake. Those were the days when money was honest and worked for the people. One day he walked out with his secretary, last heard of in the Bahamas.