precious number nine
a vandal thrown beer bottle in free fall
at the point of smashing
about to rebound its echoey voice off the cobbled
alleyway walls and become a glittering shard carpet
sends me into immediate reverse
loud threats from the brain dead youth
not content with his meaningless victory
I cannot stop from luxuriating in my ears.
In retreat looking back over my shoulder
there he is cutting a menacing figure
that makes me shiver and cross myself
thankful I hadn't put my life on the line again
like I had done in my young Wilde-cat bar brawling days
having I recall used up at least eight of them.
© Stef Wilde 09/01/2018