Johnny

Nobody knew

where Johnny came from,

with his turbanned head

and coffee-coloured skin.

Carrying his Aladdin’s case

snapped full of

liberty bodices in Peter Rabbit bags,

frilly pink petticoats

and silk stockings

pressed and folded

in crinkly cellophane,

for a few shillings

every week.

Johnny dipped digestive biscuits

in china cups of tea,

as though used to it

all his days.

He came on the 44 bus

from somewhere outside Glasgow,

that could have been Timbuktu,

to his customers in Cleland.

His deep velvet voice

tinted with a Scottish burr

said politely little,

but his eyes

brimmed with memories

of hot dusty roads

and dark Indian nights.