The Penny-Toy Man
He has always lived here.
Scarred in his tenement jail and
locked within the dreams of
forgotten children.
He has always walked here.
In lane and yard, he strolls and
sings his mournful song by the
nicotine sun.
He has always watched here.
A collector of London’s sweepings,
a guardian beneath the steeple of
Christ Church.
He has always fed here.
From neglect’s sweet harvest they
flock to him and slip onto his stage
of dead marionettes.
He will always sleep here.
Fears drain away and stories may
fade, but his sour breath will
forever slumber in stone and mud.
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