By BernardYoung

A Memory

I couldn’t text.
I couldn’t phone.
If I wanted to play out
and not be on my own
I would have to walk round
or cycle round
to my friend's house,
knock on the door,
wait for his mum
to answer it
(his dad would be at work,
dad's were always at work
in those days)
and say, 'Can Andy
come out to play?'
'Andy,' she'd yell,
'your poet friend’s here'
(ok, ok, she wouldn't say that,
I was a cowboy at that age)
and Andy would appear.
Without a word
we'd set off somewhere
and, with no text to remind us
and no phone call to check
if we were OK,
we'd play
for hours
but be back home
in time for tea
(or there'd be hell to pay).

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