Strawberry

The man with the large forehead
is standing outside of the Vaults
Pub – on Kings Street, having a fag,
wearing a long grey coat
like a line of smoke, undone –
dark clothes underneath.

The man with the large forehead
is standing with his
straight hair brown, pushing in a
smooth curve out,
high above his eyes,
poker past his jaw.

The man with the large forehead
is casually bent against the brick wall,
one leg crossed against the other, as I do
my recycling, separating
green glass out – from the grey
cardboard.

The man with the large forehead
looks like the Warlock
dealing mojo out in Buffy,
addicting the girl to his dark
corruption, whispering –
‘Strawberry’ – inside her ear.

The man with the large forehead
is the same one I saw
last Friday night, somewhere close
to nearly midnight, propping up a bar,
grey coat cold, fingers hooked
inside his hair.

The man with the large forehead
may or may not
be watching me lazily –
as I crumple my bag,
emptied of its papers,
wine bottles, smashed.