Red wine

Red wine at John’s
was a laugh
and it wasn’t.
Tongue-curling sour.

His mam
bought him twenty
fags, a full Showaddywaddy
drape in scarlet

and gave him twenty quid
to blow
on beer and porn.
We hung young mouths like Os.

Back at school,
we watched him slam doors
as he was kicked out
of successive classes,

Two-Tone tramlines
shaved into his hair. Expelled
at thirteen (a father for a year),
he burnt dustbins, hit people,

did some time.
I saw him four or five years on,
working his dad’s fruit barrow
down the December street.

He had tattoos on his neck,
and was saving to get them lasered off,
was living with a woman and her three kids.
His voice was still soft.