They pass
always in twos, arm in arm
in tight-knit jumpers, long,
hiding short skirts, black tights
stalking like liquorice sticks,
bird’s nests bouffants, backcombed
straggled fringes
to hide the Dusty Springfield eyes,
looking but not looking
at the boys,
it’s always the taller one they want.
Later they'll give the boys a treat,
sitting primly on the damp grass
in the rec,
a glimpse of knickers,
their secret is to look bored
listening to a tiny transistor,
sweets for my sweet
sugar for my honey
no fags until Friday
unless the boys offer
and want what in return.
© Graham Sherwood 07/2015
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