The Long Walk Home

It's about three miles, give or take

though it never seemed that far

not at the time

with beer in the blood

banter to push us along

murdering songs, naming stars.

We'd stop by the steps that led down to the sands,

eat handfuls of pizza,

the cheese almost set

from time spent chatting about girls,

fast cars,

neither of which we then knew.

But you would soon

and I'd be left to stare at the sky alone

with my back flat to the bitumen,

wondering is there?

Could there be another me

gazing out, up, down?

A speck

in a speck of a seaside town

on one of those glimmering dots

in the distant sky?

Then I'd look to my left

to see what you'd say,

and sigh.

You moved on.

So why can't I?

(Part of the collection 'Every Day Is Like Sunday', about growing up in a British seaside town.)