This Boy

This Boy

At the age of 10 Jack Delaney

Was a Utopia on legs,

A fantasy I could only dream

Of catching

Pushed back, greasy

Odd chopped mop,

Yoghurt stained school shirt, every play time

Grazed knees that bled the colour of first love:

This boy was beautiful.

In the playground

Whilst my head was plunged into my latest

Second hand

Enid Blyton novel

Occasionally he would stop and lower

His bazooka turned arm

To enquire about my wellbeing.

And I silently wondered if maybe

Just maybe,

This boy wanted to hold hands

With the girl who had not once been pursued in a game

Of kiss chase.

I longed to feel his palms pressed against mine

Fingers between fingers, grasping

Tender skin

So when I saw him locking fingers with

My best friend’s at the school disco,

I could do nothing but slam the wobbly toilet door

And cry for my mum about

This boy.