Cross-legged at the crossroads
on peeling green council benches,
where the elderly often stare with wet eyes,
young boys , blowing grass between their thumbs
peer into the distance
to glimpse their futures
and their forbidden fruits
delivered by road.
They dream of music stardom,
fucking the older village girls,
earning money and shiny motorbikes.
One or two, the handsome ones,
have had a feel behind the Working Mens’
small soft warm breasts
bartered for a brittle kitkat
from the cold milk machine
outside the chipshop,
knees remain together,
strictly top deck only.
Some will venture, others stay
snagged in the net
the stew pond of regret and despondency
with local wives, made into fat mothers
blinkered by a cold sex present
and a warm beer future
skittles and an angry dog.
© Graham Sherwood 07/2015
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