Not A Fighter

Bill McKinstry and

that is his name was

for a time my friend,

and colleague.

Tall, blonde and blue eyed,

A little rotund, some

Called him Billy Bunter behind

His back, a few to his face.

I guess his ex-merchant seaman

Skin was thick enough…

Most of the time.

He used to say to me,

“always remember

I am a lover not a fighter”

One night we were called

To a fast food bar,

There was a riot,

Everyone fighting inside and out

Chairs, tables, bodies,

Flying, careering crashing.

He donned his forage cap

Took a deep breath

Casually dandered in,

Up to the counter

Behind which the manager

And staff cowered and said,

“Well, what appears

to be the trouble?” He was

in that moment my hero.

A few short years later,

His thick skin wearing thin,

He and a bottle of vodka,

Fell asleep on the sofa

At his mother’s house,

And he never woke up.

I am reminded of my friend’s words,

That…..

He was a lover not a fighter.

 

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