Sitting with Diego

the morning’s got its claws in, a hangover sitting heavy on the brain. there’s still a little whiskey left in the blood, sloshing around in the empty tank, burning sweet.

we talk the usual shit, love, life, the happiness that fucked off years ago and never sent a postcard. he’s a gentle Spaniard out of Madrid, skin gone dark and creased like old leather, black half-moons under his nails, a smile too bright for this street. he is a family man, six kids, all in school but the baby, and another on the way. Christ.

my friend Diego, down on his knees for five quid a pop, the rag popping like a whip. customers are lined up and waiting, they want the shine, that cheap little lie that says everything’s new again. he works the sides, arms pumping, sweat blooming under the armpits of a grey shirt washed too many times. the horsehair brush chews the toe cap, the waxy lump of polish melting into the leather. and then the finish—snap-snap, shoes coming out clean, prettier than they ever deserved.

Diego Ramirez, the best shoe-shine man in this rotten London rain, polishing the boots of drunks and bankers and broken-down poets like me, five pounds at a time, smiling the whole damn while.

booze again at dawn,
the liver’s a clenched red fist,
still I pour the fire.