Fridays on the Towpath

We banked on being millionaires
by fourteen; you wore braces
on your teeth, and pigtails.

Me...a borderline autistic...
labelled, by my mum, like a tin
of Heinz Baked Beans.

School was out of the question...
although we’d be there
for register, getting that tick
in the box;

all the teachers cared,
in a place where classrooms
stank of apathy, and warmed-up,
second rate, love affairs.

We two would often hang loose
by the river on Fridays; pet
the heavy horses...watch the rise
and the fall of the water in the lock...

skim stones – talk about
nothing much, and everything;
how we dreamed of hitting
the big-time;

me, strumming air-guitar,
and you...Ginger Rogers,
minus Fred Astaire.

Time, kind of did a freeze-frame...
us – perched on the lock gate
studying the water;

white on top,
but black beneath,
getting the hell
out of there.