Tell me your tale

of what it meant to venture

out in the dark

and hang with the kids who smoked

and looked cool as the whisper of ash

mixed freely

in the stilted and peach like air

and then glided towards

the beckoning heavens

as your eyes naturally found the excuse

to drift slowly downwards

and look at the black tram seam

that ran from the top of their

unpolished and ungainly shoes

to the bottom of the pencil

lined grey skirt,

faded after several washes,

the truth of the teenage boy, sullen

grumpy, and yet filled with wonder

of why the cigarette smoke

was the most real thing around

and why the back of the legs

smelled slightly of Sunday dinner,

powdered meat juice

liberally drawn on rough skin…

 

The dish of the day,

the teenage lad’s

dream, already a gravy boat floated

down river.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016