We move slow
in time with our slipping youth
We don’t rush, no
we were slow
to go home
Passing the coffee shops and bars
I would later make my home
I couldn’t have ever known
they passed by, a blur, unseen
Her hand
held loose
in the heat
There’s no need to push things
we’ve time…
Then one night
on a sofa in the kitchen
at my mother’s house
She turned slow, smiling
and said “we should”
I could have laughed
I must have beamed
and all at the same time
I was cautious
We moved slow
tip-toeing down to the car
I didn’t know
if I could take another one
another person’s innocence
away
So, I paused…
and time slipped away…
In a daydream I had
more recently
in a bar, when I was feeling particularly old
I thought back
and couldn’t remember
why I didn’t have her
If I could do it now
I would do it now
Then it hit me
I was honest then
I was decent
O, I was a real man
back then…
[2007]
Thanks for reading this tatty old poem.
The Lighthouse 
“The good ones win the prize in the end. Thanks for being
a gentleman.” :))
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Let’s hope so…. 😊🙏👍
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I know so! Or, at least I suppose so. :)) 🙏💛🌷
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Also I want to say… it’s written very beautifully. Very slow stream-of-consciousness. I love it.
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Thanks 🙂 I think all my writing back then was pretty stream-of-consciousness, I hadn’t really learned the value of editing or restructuring. So, if a poem worked, it was just because it came out working. It’s kind the opposite way to the way I write now. Thank you for commenting, as always! 🌶😀
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The chilli pepper is making me smile. 😆 Thanks for that. Yes, stream of consciousness seems to work the best for me too, at least in terms of my later satisfaction when looking back on various works. But sometimes working a poem can be fun. ;)) 😉💘🌊
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This feels like some honest reflection, much like a good confessional poem.
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