When We Were Beautiful Boys

We wore Oxford bags and scarves,

smoked Gauloise and coughed discreetly

into handkerchiefs with our father’s monogram;

made fey, made-up,

when we were beautiful boys.

We kissed girls, held their hands

and hearts, gently, as though we understood

their fears instilled by mothers doubtful

made scared, made sick,

when we were beautiful boys.

We looked like David Cassidy, safe and anodyne,

quite androgynous, not quite daring enough

to be the other David with his full-on-slap

made rare, made strange,

when we were beautiful boys.

We shed our greatcoats, cut our hair, fit ourselves

in round-holes, knocking our corners off

to fit-in, to fit others’ ill-made templates,

made new, made dull

when we were beautiful boys.

We are bald, not bold; cold - not cool or collectable

by women our age long past caring for the foolish

forgotten by fashion fogies we became;

made bland, made less,

than we once-beautiful boys.