seen him, around ten, dossing down beside

the ponderous limestone foundations of St Mary’s Cathedral

watched him, at seven, hovering outside Centro Cafe,

waiting for his gratis ‘boss didn’t see’ long black

stumbled upon him, must have been six, rummaging

through wheelie bins in the lane behind our showrooms

name is Frank (so the Centro barista told me),

once ‘a someone, a big-wig in merchant banking’

now, bin-bag for wardrobe, eyes forever darting, chin and

fingers shaking, librating, like he’s swallowed the moon

reminder, remainder, flotsam of debt equity seas,

nomad roaming paved and tarred tundra

gone to speak, but each time when I’ve opened my

wallet of words, nothing but coppers and buttons