It was only a lunch box.

It was only a lunch box.

Battered now,

And faded from too much sun.

A lighter blue,

Than it once was, when new.

The superman logo

Peeled away long ago.

Even the catch was gone,

And he kept it closed

With an old leather strap.

Washed it out under a tap,

In the convenience,

At the station.

He is careful about hygiene.

And obsessively,

Kept hands and face clean,

Which was unusual these days.

It was a ritual,

And reminded him of carbolic soap,

Hanging on a rope.

The coarse feel of a flannel,

Dragged across his face.

The slap of a hand,

On his bare backside,

Whenever he cried,

Which he usually did,

When the suds got in his eyes.

He stared at himself

In the stainless steel mirror

Above the sink.

Cupped his hands

And tried to drink,

As the water dribbled

Through his beard.

And held his breath against the stink

Of other men

And their foul habits.

Perhaps he should

Make his way to the platform,

Lay open the box,

Play a few tunes

Get enough money

For some new strings,

Buy a breakfast

And a sandwich for later.

The box was made for such things.

It was a good find.

In a builders skip,

Where he had tried to sleep

Among the black bags.

Warm but heady,

And he needed

To be ready

For the garbage truck.

It would be just his luck,

One day,

To sleep in,

And end up in a land fill.

Not that he

Would be the first.

He stooped,

To slurp another drink,

Nothing seemed to quench his thirst

These days.

It was the diabetes,

And the cold was

Playing havoc

With his extremities.

His toes were black,

There was no coming back,

What a mess.

He should have demanded more,

Not less,

From the divorce.

If she saw him now

Would she feel remorse?

But that would not happen.

She was long gone,

On the other side of town

And he was

Washing in a toilet,

Just another,

Sad old John.