Yoof

Perched at the crossroads

on council benches

peeling the flaking green skin

where elders usually sit and stare

at passing traffic with vacant wet eyes

young boys blow fat blades of grass

between their thumbs to make a pheasant call

whilst peering into the distance

to glimpse their future disappointments

and keep watch for forbidden fruits

delivered hourly by the bus.

 

Dreaming of music stardom

earning money for shiny motorbikes.

and fucking older girls

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 chilled milk machine

outside the chipshop,

knees remain together,

strictly top deck.

 

Some will eventually venture further afield

others staying snagged in the net

the stagnant village stew pond

of regret and despondency

making pretty local wives into fat unattractive mothers

blinkered in a cold sex present

and a warm beer future

of skittles and an angry dog.

 

© Graham Sherwood 2018