Karl Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

I see Karl coming up on the footpath
And set my composure for the encounter
He is as always cheery and friendly
But in something of a dreadful strait.

I have known him now for 15 years
Since he attended Buddhist classes
And he still talks about the conveners
With whom I have largely lost touch.

For as long as I have known him
He has been ravaged by schizophrenia
And now into his late fifties
He is gaunt and his face is heavily lined.

He is returning from playing the piano
In a bar - a task to which he is still suited
Though at one time he played in a famous group
And was highly regarded for his skill.

His clothes are dirty, torn and ill-fitting
His jacket stretched across his slight frame
Is both too small for his bones and too big
For his emaciated and neglected torso.

He tells me that he is still living alone
In reserved accommodation and that
He has cut down his medication
Taking only Olanzapine to help him sleep.

‘Pretty wild in those Nelson Street Flats'
He chuckles - they are cooking Crack
On the top floor. ‘Better stay off it' I say
‘I try to' he replies with a shy giggle.

‘I'm off to hear Herbie Hancock play
On Wednesday at the Michael Fowler Centre
Somebody gave me a free ticket - he's
Still the best at acoustic and electronic jazz'.

At which he wheels, feeling the audience is over,
Having learned that listeners tend to edge away -
And he is off with a crab-like gait, long hair flying,
Muttering another improvised solo to unreality.