For Eighteen Minutes in 1979 By John Doyle

His face-free photograph

has no word, letter, nor number, 

here is time at its lousiest, mocking love and dreams

and shapes where Elysium's mustang never left its stable;

His voice a choking coal dust on black wilderness starstruck frenzy.

I just know he lived across main and 3rd 

in a two room pokey 

with his mom and her latest boyfriend.

He was my best friend for eighteen minutes in 1979

and I loved him like I was Jesus loving everything

except sin

and his pappy's cigarette ash 

getting in his eyes 

on designated Sundays.

Across the street Tavares thump their notions of love and peace

at a point in time where boys no longer sneak into other boy's houses

and become fleeting kin - for eternity;

Someone's switched off 

Don't Take Away the Music,

the carwash on the corner of main and 3rd

does its job efficiently, 

with meaning, 

making neither friend nor foe

Half man, half creature of very odd habit, John Doyle dabbles in poetry when other forms of alchemy and whatnot just don't meet his creative needs. From County Kildare in Ireland, he is (let's just politely say) closer to 50 than 21.