foto©robcullen20151022

The boys out there in the park.

…

I remember seeing you,

that first day, sitting in the stink

of the wet flagged floor

of a green walled prison cell in 82.

…

A young blond haired boy,

looking so much younger

than the ten years of age

of the birth date you gave.

…

And thirty three years

have passed since then,

but you greet me with the same

mischievous narrow lipped grin.

…

In all the years I’ve known you,

that bit of you has never changed

through the visits I’ve made

and all the prisons we name,

…

like some mad tourist guide

of the broken and lost years.

And you still call me

by my first name,

…

as you’ve always done.

“How are you?” you ask,

when you shake my hand