You are barely sketched, like a catching shutter
A hesitant boy, a man bud
Afraid to blossom, huddled in front of the man you became
Pre-lined face, milky and indistinct like moon mist
Framed for future crimes
In pre-figured recognition, the prequel to me, a déjà view
Seeing what was to become of you
I am the dénoûment, the critical reveal
The given-away ending, the spoiled plot line,
The emotionally illiterate scarline that time didn’t heal
I am the hangpenny amusement machine with all the answers you didn’t ask
teetering on the edge of the questions.
The boy I was didn’t ask for the lies,
The almost dids and the nearly achieved.
You take in the sagging dreams and the could have beens
And the slot machine excuses for the false start CVs,
the blow-out TV dinner repeats and the crippled promises
and you begin to cry
As you watch the train-driving, Trigger-riding, Kryptonite hero
who could have roared through a Beano screech of a life
turn into me, a book at bedtime.
And through smeared vision you begin to understand
That destiny has come to visit today
And given the game away
That the man you will become
has not come to ask for much at all
except one thing.
Roy Stannard 27.10.12