We tore up that park
just being what we were

young, ordinary, bored

cheap

beer, spirits
concoctions
that somehow didn’t kill us
cloudily mixed
in one bottle

and cider,
always that.

In the park I discarded
troublesome innocence
though sliding, short,
unimpressive
it was.

After, we smoked her cigarette
lit throughout
heat close to my ear
where arms had crossed behind my neck.

We’d roll home,
sense near obliterated
idiotically harmless,
vaulting fences

until homes reached,
peeling off one by one,
we, slurring, scented of smoke

told our parents as they
stood on stairs
like seething sentries

that we’d had a kickabout
gone to a friends,
hadn’t drank or smoked
not us.

In the morning
head a dust bowl
we’d dread – remember,
unstuck from stagnant stupors

embellishing details, for later…

© Richard A Howe

Rick Howe is a factory worker from South Yorkshire, England.  He has recently begun writing again after a self-enforced break of 18 years. His poetry can be dark but is not exclusively, there is often wry humour and is always noticeably his. To contact and see more of his work visit:

Soundcloud:  soundcloud.com/rickhowedownbeatpoetry

Twitter: http://twitter.com/rickh