The Bench
That afternoon in the damp, green spring
I see you and Chappie: at seventeen
You are all angles and sharp edges
With your against-all-school-rules afros
Smoking menthol cigarettes
Tossing a ball for Blackie
Today I want to unearth a smoke from your box
Hidden under the loose bottom of a side cupboard
And sit on the bench with you — my brother
Even though our beloved Blackie is long gone
And no-one smokes anymore