whereabouts

by Derek Motion

the horde of kids circled the cul-de-sac endlessly

on bikes, roller skates, anything with wheels, but

on the afternoon of sudden departure (when all things

were sudden in our minds) they attempted a shower of

bric-a-brac. tiny plastic figurines & comic books

were the first expressions of a devotion based on locale,

moulding so shadowed as to now appear a generic

yellow & orange blob – nothing as concrete as a smurf,

or a superman in flight.

but then the gifting became the game

& obscene objects were held up zealously.

a guiness world book of records, circa 1983,

one signal things had got out of hand; the bmx

ludicrous for its dimensions (a removal truck

so obviously cramming itself within metres).

the final moment of farce was the nameless boy

holding a pair of underpants up from his window. but

living in a circle like that, wheeling perpetual tight curves,

it gave credence to this ‘not saying things as they are meant’.

feeling is always implied and laughed off.

like paling fences built to disregard your best adulthood advance.

like a giant peppercorn that stubbornly ignores your posting,

your departure. everything is offered but nothing taken.

except the desperate expression circling

the eyes of the boy, of the underpants.