For James K. Baxter (1926 - 1972) Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

Poor Pass in Kilbirnie

There is still no Revolution, the drums are dusty
And the once young bullfighter has grown sad-whiskered.
Briefly escaped from the Rita Angus complex
He wheels his steel-frame down Bay Road

Having survived from among the singers, the fighters
And the so-called lovers - body now stiff as board,
A face like weathered newsprint from the verge -
He edges and side-steps to the Ruth Gotlieb library.

Let us admit that we were unimpressed from the start -
That when the door shot open and he awoke us
We were sleepy and angry and in need of a coffee,
Never considering a corrida among our options

I further dispute that there was any call to consider God -
And as I remember, death, sex and hope were off the program -
With no chance of blood on the sawdust that or any wet Sunday
There being no time for flashy and outlandish suits of light.