At the back of those high trees in junior school.
That never ever seemed to grow gold in autumn.
It’s still there I bet – petrified. Old. stone skin.
Knees supporting a chin somehow still held high.
With a muddy arse on blooded school trousers.
Just still lacking whatever that place kept
Telling me I lacked.
We are different people him and I
He is my Bukowski’s bluebird
The boy I nurture and protect. As me and my own.
No one sees him – no one hurts him.
Only problem is –
He tells me what he used to tell everybody
“I’m fine, nothing to worry about, I just fell over”
I wish I didn’t know any different.