Game Over

First it was the red Chopper –

a thirteenth birthday gift,

left rusting in the dew

of someone else’s garden,

and no matter how many times

mum nagged, you never found a reason

to go back for it. 

 

Then it was the mixing decks

confiscated to dad’s attic,

as though there could be

an incentive.

 

And later, in your twenties,

it was the disused ambulance

left blocking the drive of some mate of a mate

who was waiting

for you to get your license sorted

and convert it.

 

But this time, it was your wide-eyed,

Mohican-haired boy

on a day when the Police turned up

with a social worker this time

after mounting threats from dealers

sick of waiting for you to repay them.

 

And now it’s his childhood left rusting in the grass,

a childhood you could be a part of

if we even knew where you were.

But here we all are,

phones switched on,

still waiting.