Christmas always began early at our house
Heralded by a visit
Present in hand
Around Sunday afternoon closing time
From Cornelius Kelly
And a deck of cards.
His hard luck stories of lost betting slips
And unjust prosecutions
Always ended with pleadings to my father
For “just a wee loan to tide us over til New Year's Frankie.”
On bended knee his nicotine stained fingers
would drop the cards
Onto the cold, damp front step
His alcohol ravaged face close to mine
As through boozy breath
And rotten teeth
He dared me to find the lady,
Distracting my judgment
With his Irish banter
And defying the eye
With his artistry
And deftness of hand.
A petty criminal par excellence
And master of survival
His bright red face
Dissected by purple veins and blackheads
Resembled a topographic map
Of some distant lunar landscape
And graced police files
From London to Dublin.
Along with other racetrack misfits
His delicate yellow fingers
Would relieve unsuspecting punters
Of their ill gotten gains
In order to refurbish
An ever dwindling supply
Of Guinness and hot tips. The eldest son
From the farm in County Mayo,
His reputation as a likable villain
Snapping at his heels
Like some mangey fleabitten dog
Followed him wherever he went.
He lived when he was home
In Kilburn Square.
Outside his house
Was a red telephone box
He used as his office.
When I was ten
He died suddenly
The day before Christmas.
That very same day
While shopping with my aunt
We stopped to make an urgent telephone call
Outside his house
And a flock of pidgeons
Shat all over my new school uniform.
I never stopped crying
Until my dad told me
It was a final Christmas gift
From Cornelius Kelly.