Harvey

 

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.