The Bones of Youth
At fifteen I was a
regular
in the Alvechurch Red
Lion;
a member of the darts
team
drinking beer and
fending off advances
from those who thought
I shouldn't be in the bar
(I should be in the
lounge, maybe,
or the outside urinal
with my lips
around somebody's cock)
I looked much older
than my years
eyes pinched by the
sight of death and
my arms well muscled
despite the thinness
of freckled wrists,
thanks to nights and weekends
hefting bales of peat
and compost.
Pints of bitter lined
along the bar
no Babycham or CherryB
despite
the history of my
gateway to alcohol.
My sister always drank
port and lemon
though the only time we
drank together
was at our father's
wake.
the Red Lion still
stands;
the church, the school,
the crumbling park,
though the brook where
we sailed paper boats
has been sent
underground in disgrace
and the five bar
kissing gate
has long since rusted
to nothing.
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