Exchange
Partners
By Ruth Arnison
He was looking for a dance partner, someone to
mark time with, as he shuffled to the beat of the
school kids in the Jazz Band
With a tatty pack parked on his bent back, and his
monkeylike gait he was thwarted by fate. A kid
called out, Hey Mister Punch
Swivelling his stiff body, he squinted through the
sun's glare muttering I'll Mister Punch you before
returning to offer
advice to the guys now playing Blues. Tired of his
needling, the bass player told him to take a hike
Feet apart, arms interwoven
he muttered threats until disgusted he shambled off
to nose in the bins for discarded hot dogs, easy
eating for toothless gums
Later we spied him dancing at the bottom of High
St, maybe dreaming of partnering that last tram
up the hill
