Bang Straight

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.