Death in Duke Street

A huddle on the greasy street – 
cars stop, nose past, withdraw – 
dull glint on soles of tackety boots, 
frayed rough blue trousers, nondescript coat 
stretching back, head supported 
in strangers’ arms, a crowd collecting – 
‘Whit’s wrang?’ ‘Can ye see’m?’ 
‘An auld fella, he’s had it.’ 
On one side, a young mother in a headscarf 
is kneeling to comfort him, her three-year-old son 
stands puzzled, touching her coat, her shopping bag 
spills its packages that people look at 
as they look at everything. On the other side 
a youth, nervous, awkwardly now 
at the centre of attention as he shifts his arm 
on the old man’s shoulders, wondering 
what to say to him, glancing up at the crowd. 
These were next to him when he fell, 
and must support him into death. 
He seems not to be in pain, 
he is speaking slowly and quietly 
but he does not look at any of them, 
his eyes are fixed on the sky, 
already he is moving out 
beyond everything belonging. 
As if he still belonged 
they hold him very tight. 

Only the hungry ambulance 
howls for him through the staring squares.