And it was at that age….
that summer, when I met
a young man in a red shirt,
with a yellow cowboy necktie,
with a straight fringe cut
to feel like a declaration,
cradling a mongrel, in sunshine,
in a back alley, with a black
waistcoat, a character
of sorts, getting going,
with soft hands, with shoes
broken in two places, with
bins lining old walls,
with games put away,
then reused, with hesitation
and misinformation, aged
doors, stink, abandoned junk,
going somewhere, dressed
to go far and local,
perfect, with his poster
of the crone with her eye
hanging down the cheek,
even then, at that age,
trying to say and see.