on a suburban train
bound
for another corner of nowhere
the boy dressed in white
attracts
my attention
he’s no better looking than most, no more
attractive, i doubt
he is cleverer than they, let alone
eruditer
but
he does have
a style.
the boy dressed in white takes a seat facing mine, one removed down the carriage, he sits on his least white item of clothing, his jacket, making sure that his brilliantwhite trousers don’t get stained with the grime of the train
his shirt is half sheer and somewhere between, in whiteness, the trousers and jacket, it has a pinkish hue, perhaps from the lilac white pink of his skin, his skin is milky and soft to the
touch
i imagine
(i don’t walk up to him to find out, lest he take
umbrage)
his hair is the black of a boy whose hair just isn’t quite black, but
a dark mousy brown, dark enough to seem black though against the white of his
temples. his shoes are white, i don’t see his socks or his
underwear
but chances are they are
white.
the boy dressed in white sits on the train out to nowhere playing a game on his phone. only once or twice does he look up and our eyes meet
on both occasions
without meaning. i interest him less than he me but then i am twice his age and not wearing white, but he’s not
quite
indifferent. nor is he put out, he turns his attention back to his game and if i were to have a guess at what he was feeling i’d say
confident
at having had
some effect. (maybe as
desired)
the boy dressed in white has a future i reckon and i reckon he reckons so too. his phone rings, the one he’s been playing a game on. it’s the wrong kind of phone but he’s ‘good’ and what’s more he’s had some good news. the good news is that a manager, the manager, no less, of mcfly wants to hear his songs. he’s been talking to him in a bar and he’s told him that he has a good look, which he does, his look is what’s caught my attention too and i too, if i were a manager of young pop stars, would take an interest in him
and his songs.
relating his good news to the friend on the phone (not girlfriend not boyfriend nor mum, by the tone of his voice, but a friend) he gets off the train at someplace out nowhere, out in the suburbs, assured
in the knowledge
that though nowhere may be where he’s now
he’s got style he’s got songs he’s got people’s attention: he’s
clearly
got somewhere
to go.
bound
for another corner of nowhere
the boy dressed in white
attracts
my attention
he’s no better looking than most, no more
attractive, i doubt
he is cleverer than they, let alone
eruditer
but
he does have
a style.
the boy dressed in white takes a seat facing mine, one removed down the carriage, he sits on his least white item of clothing, his jacket, making sure that his brilliantwhite trousers don’t get stained with the grime of the train
his shirt is half sheer and somewhere between, in whiteness, the trousers and jacket, it has a pinkish hue, perhaps from the lilac white pink of his skin, his skin is milky and soft to the
touch
i imagine
(i don’t walk up to him to find out, lest he take
umbrage)
his hair is the black of a boy whose hair just isn’t quite black, but
a dark mousy brown, dark enough to seem black though against the white of his
temples. his shoes are white, i don’t see his socks or his
underwear
but chances are they are
white.
the boy dressed in white sits on the train out to nowhere playing a game on his phone. only once or twice does he look up and our eyes meet
on both occasions
without meaning. i interest him less than he me but then i am twice his age and not wearing white, but he’s not
quite
indifferent. nor is he put out, he turns his attention back to his game and if i were to have a guess at what he was feeling i’d say
confident
at having had
some effect. (maybe as
desired)
the boy dressed in white has a future i reckon and i reckon he reckons so too. his phone rings, the one he’s been playing a game on. it’s the wrong kind of phone but he’s ‘good’ and what’s more he’s had some good news. the good news is that a manager, the manager, no less, of mcfly wants to hear his songs. he’s been talking to him in a bar and he’s told him that he has a good look, which he does, his look is what’s caught my attention too and i too, if i were a manager of young pop stars, would take an interest in him
and his songs.
relating his good news to the friend on the phone (not girlfriend not boyfriend nor mum, by the tone of his voice, but a friend) he gets off the train at someplace out nowhere, out in the suburbs, assured
in the knowledge
that though nowhere may be where he’s now
he’s got style he’s got songs he’s got people’s attention: he’s
clearly
got somewhere
to go.
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