Alistair Wilkinson Author
Alistair WilkinsonAuthor

He's my brother really

We're not friends. He's my brother, really. 

I see him outside every week, outside Aldi, 

huddled among the trolleys, slumped outside 

the glass. A single pane separates him from  

non-brand jars of bloody jam, peanut butter  

and chocolate spread. 


He lifts his head, mouth drops open, black and soulless  

like a ventriloquist's dummy with no knee.  

His head rolls, falls.  

Sightless eyes stare  

at the wheels of the trolleys. 

I fumble with the token. No coin. 


I buy him pork pies, worth less than the token 

for the trolley, place them on his knee, not in his hand, 

and I tell him I hope he stays 

warm and I know how stupid it sounds and 

when he looks up at me, thanks real and  

warm, I know how stupid I am. 


I meet his eyes and there’s something mixed with  

the warmth, something other than eyes above  

rotting teeth, but I can’t see it. So I stare instead  

at the pies on his knee and fumble with the  

trolley and fumble with my key and mumble  

again about warmth as if my words were  

great white blankets and I were 

somehow a  




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Or find Alistair Wilkinson @algy04 on twitter.

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© Alistair Wilkinson