The Unknown Man
Historical poem
Hardingstone Lane. It is Bonfire Night,
and no time could be brighter or finer
to loiter in vain (as it seems) for the sight
of that man in his black Morris Minor.
I’d met him last week when he bought me a beer —
‘For,’ he laughed, ‘I am nearly your double.’
We started to speak, and he made it quite clear:
He could help me right out of my trouble.
‘No wife, then?’ he spluttered. ‘Not even one child?
No soul then, to tell you goodbye?’
‘My life, sir,’ I muttered, ‘was reckless and wild.
No one cares if I live or I die.’
‘You’ve had bad luck,’ he said as he sipped lemonade.
‘I’d imagine that’s starting to fester.’
I scratched my sore head as he got up and paid.
Then he offered a lift up to Leicester . . .
He’s late. Now I peer through the gloom and the haze.
When I spy the approach of my saviour,
I mention the wait. Then I meet his cold gaze,
and am stunned by the fellow’s behaviour.
Before I can frown, flee, or cry out in dread,
before my thoughts speak themselves clearly,
a mallet comes down on the top of my head
and I am a dead man — or nearly.
I perish by fire, in a car set aflame,
for I never wake up from the blow.
My burning desire is to tell you my name.
But even I no longer know.
Inspired by the true story of the Blazing Car Murder, and by this article: https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/grave-of-the-unknown-man
