Saturday, 1 April 2017

poetry 2017 / 035

Bus Tickets

Aki was a friend most of the time
occasionally an enemy, but rarely;
mostly we just jogged along with shared interests;
walks, dogs, dens in the woods,
how to fudge your homework scores.

He taught me to love comic books,
his dad's pornographic magazines,
cycling and shoplifting.
He never criticised me for my gender
or called me a freak or weirdo,
though his sister was strangely distant;
beautiful despite disphoria,
and borrowed my clothes.

He moved to Birmingham,
made a new life; new friends.
His divorced dad became bitter,
glared at me when he passed in his Zephyr 6
as if it was my fault
his wife found love elsewhere.
Aki and me drifted apart – his comic collection
overflowing his mother's new flat
to her perpetual astonishment.
I got rid of mine, fearful of the vengeance
of my mother's jealous god.

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