Chips and oranges
One etched in black and white stripes. Hugged against the doorway.
Another opposite leaned, yellowed against the balcony.
An orange balances in his hand.
Chip-handed and reaching for more.
He scratches his ears, as they pricked by gossip.
His eyes wince in the sun’s shadow.
Laughter shakes his head and reaches for more.
Like years lost they are boys again, ageless and faceless.
Cropped by sunning hair, their pale faces.
These are the men that I live with.
The young men who I now call family.
They are the ones that I have loved and love again.
He tilts the chips, a simple gesture,
no matter how full the packet.
One etched in black and white stripes. Hugged against the doorway.
Another opposite leaned, yellowed against the balcony.
An orange balances in his hand.
Chip-handed and reaching for more.
He scratches his ears, as they pricked by gossip.
His eyes wince in the sun’s shadow.
Laughter shakes his head and reaches for more.
Like years lost they are boys again, ageless and faceless.
Cropped by sunning hair, their pale faces.
These are the men that I live with.
The young men who I now call family.
They are the ones that I have loved and love again.
He tilts the chips, a simple gesture,
no matter how full the packet.
...
I wrote this in 2003 also about the boys that I lived with at New College. I was sitting on the balcony outside 3AB on a sunny afternoon watching them all.
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