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.
No comments:
Post a Comment