This Friday morning
about eight
while I am walking up London
Road
this boy
about ten
comes out of his house
talking loudly to himself.
The lairy old man of his
past life
still seeks some control
over this.
Maybe he’s twelve
secondary
small for his largeness.
He crosses the road
walking up in front of me.
I steady myself -
instinct slows me,
the desire to
have no contact
rises in my ribs
- nil by mouth.
But I too
have to cross.
I aim high taking the
diagonal across the empty road
walking fast breathing fast
the desire to overtake
taking over -
Damn!
He’s seen me
- What’re ya doing?
He doesn’t care
doesn’t hesitate
I’m out in the street
I’m prey.
- Crossing ovver -
short vowel, two v’s
I toss it across
as if I speak like that
like it’s my street.
He’s not to know.
- Oh, he says
I thought you were going
all the way up
in the middle of the road.
- No.
But I’m across now
and he decides I’m his to
walk with.
- Here, he says
is this bang straight?
He pulls me round -
strength of character -
to look at his hair.
He has tufted up the centre
strip
gelled it up
and smoothed down the sides
and back.
- Is it bang straight?
He needs to know
-Yes, I think so, I can’t
really see.
He’s come closer round in
front
- Well is it?
Bang Straight?
- Yes,
I try to sound as if it is
to satisfy him
he’s scaring me now
like he might want to come
home with me
or want money
or accuse me of touching him
or something
- It needs to be bang
straight,
it is, isn’t it?
-It is, it is.
Then he takes his bag off
strap over his head
he brushes his spiked hair.
- But you’ll muck it up like
that -
why did I say that?
Why?
I had him convinced - why?
-Did I, did I?
Did I muss it?
Is it straight?
He’s panicking now
- Is it bang straight?
- Yes it’s fine.
- Are you sure?
- Yes. It’s straight - bang straight!
May I use his word?
He might hear me then.
Bang straight.
I walk as fast as I can
to outpace him -
he’s fast
but I scrape him off at the
vets.
Then
he plays the child card
he breaks into a run
he catches me up
he’s virtually holding my
hand
while we pass
them
at the busstop
a pout of girls
- Year Nines
freshly glossed
after breakfast,
crisps and a mars bar.
When we’re past he gives in
he dumps me
in favour of
the sweet shop
on the corner.
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