Young blood arrived on our lawn.
Harvey:
the latest lad to Scott Street.
Harvey:
all of 21;
me an ancient 36.
Harvey, I envy you, my bro.
You don’t know
the rides to come.
You couldn’t understand.
We’re not supposed to understand.
Indeed, who ever truly understands?
We just get old and try to cling to something left
and call this ‘understanding’
and wonder why the ride
is running slow.
I’m jealous, bro.
Partly of the girls to come,
the parties, musings
and new best mates.
Etc. etc.
But even more than these,
I’m jealous of memories you’ll store
that speak of what went down
but keep it light on heavy shit
then top you up with mental polaroids.
Keep the memories safe, my bro.
They tend to fade away
the more we ‘understand’.
Don’t understand too much.
Let those memories simmer
as you rest
on a faded futon,
knowing I’ll be dragging out
the memory of you
for as long as I am able to.
