Poem: White boys

 

white

boys  a-plenty…

                                                         too many if you’re growing up

                                          and the whistled

                                                                           boys in question are the locals to be feared

 

                                 on a one tree avenue. Some English white trash.

                 I heard they are called that now but, oh, 

I didn’t

                                      know that then,                    I’m sure.

 

A now-stooped, ageing

fella

[who probably nobbed a model] – no he didn’t –

was the parka-wearing don,

essentially                                             I forget yeah if

it was the Madness or The Jam…

which he loved.                  I think the latter.

 

He wasn’t there when I was

jumped

for being too                         cheeky

though he     t h r e w    his  w e i g h t around in some spiky prickled sense.

 

Memorised,

his      smelly parka stayed    with       me

–  he didn’t –  as                                white                                                                                                                                                          boys are

hard work – the newest results

never very      much.

 

 

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