Afters for Others

The hill,
tea time darkness.
Headphones in,
eyes down.

Seldom seen kids.
The shrapnel of 2009.

At the supermarket checkout,
I queue.

Sandra knows I’m mad.
Her eyes tell my story,
with everything I buy.

Outside,
I’m hidden again.
Under florescent bus shelters.
Tight in the corners.

Smoking damp cigarettes,
in dripped hands.
I wage war on my past.

An incident,
which pivots and spins.

One that tore me asunder.

Running up that hill,
kitchen table warmth.
January 1971.

The rain rattles.

Towel dry cuddles,
from mums
and dads.

Love.

"We had sponge
and custard for tea."
He said.

It was always
afters for
others.