Something about the boy

[Keith]

We grew too teenage for our emotions,
mastered by the need to mate and bate.
Me in the back seat unable to speak,
staring out at passed by windows
beyond the long bonnet of 2 Litre Capri,
he always had someone sat on his knee.

I would listen beside his confidence
as it slowed down to talk.
His words could sweep away
loose strands of hair,
press a warm palm
to a reddening cheek,
convince the, I want to, I think
and roughly lift the hems
of the come on then's.

It took a certain type
to keep a body so tight
that it looked good in any light.

I get to ride shotgun now
with opening lines like my wife and I.
He became a melted medallion
with slightly graying side burns.
His body still looks the same but shaded,
food traded for red wine
and credit cards that get declined.

I used to see all the first steps
before they fell down his stairs
but that house is empty now.

Still I have to shake my head
and acknowledge that when
his eyes found a way inside
and his words dressed you up
in clothes never worn before,
then there would be a moment,
a primitive moment,
when even I would have opened my door.