Jack Healy

The clock bells start a’ringing
Betwixt six and seven sit the handles
in the bed, under the lining
Jack Healy is slowly stirring.

Jack gets up and dons his slippers
in orderly fashion he befits them
first the right one, with torn edges
then the left one, which is leaner.

He gets up and starts the counting
one two three, four suits confront him
at eight buttons per attire
it makes for thirty two, Jack ponders.

Jack busily scrubs his teeth
six seven, eight times skyward
six seven, eight more earthward
“gargle four times and then spit,
‘tis the way of genteel tots”
Jack’s mother did declare
he recalls, in days of yore
  one…
  two…
  three…
  four…
    phtoooh!

Jack Healy’s morning coffee
must be balmy, sweet and potent
Some gents enjoy their sugar
not in cubes, but in powder.
Jack laughs at them, the poor old saps
what’s the point?
     — he reflects —
you can’t count a sugar sand.
  one…
  two…
  three…
    plop! plop! plop!

Ding and dong goes the doorbell
“just in time”, Jack reflects
as he stirs his morning coffee
Fast and brisk he heads
to pick up the London Times

Nothing much has happened.
Nothing much that can be counted.
Ah, but what is this? In big, bold letters:

Her majesty’s royal navy
bids farewell to olden vessels
after threescore years of service

Now, Threescore, there’s a number!
Jack confers, slightly bubbly
Not too big, not too limber
alas, not too shabby either.

And Jack counts
  one…
  two…
  three…

It is time, the clock announces
for Jack to start a’walking
off to work he should be getting
to the balances and checkbooks
and his friends, the good old numbers.

 Step step step Jack is walking
 As Jack walks, he is counting…

Sixty-six, sixty-seven…
  Old man Murray bids him well
  from behind the fishery
  with its acrid, awful smell.

One-hundred and thirty-two, One-hundred and thirty-three…
  ‘morning Jack! — calls James the butcher
  whilst he carves a good sized chunk
  off a purplish cowpart’s nozzle.

Two-hundred and sixty-six, Two-hundred and sixty-seven…
  The graveyard gates stand tall and open
  wind-blown leaves playfully cavorting
  burial silence notwithstanding

  “How bizarre” — Jack does ponder —
  “I would have sworn that yesterday,
  two-hundred and sixty-eight was the number”

And Jack shrugs, and he walks on.

— sergio on March 11, 2004