About his capacity for joy,
Like he’s living his life
Way better than the rest of us.
Hopeful in his skinny youth
And smiles wide like Christmas morning,
He is so unadulterated
That it makes you quiver.
As the wind batters him breathless.
He’s finally where he feels
He should have been all along.
The smile never leaves his face
He wants to inhabit every second
And make this last the rest of his life.
Sunbathing in jeans, bare-chested
But for a gold crucifix,
Or grinning into the camera,
Wrapped in a seafarer’s cable knit,
Behind his unsuspecting back,
Everyone else has already abandoned ship.
The picture of 70s innocence
Distilled in Timothy,
In headphones and white dungarees.
A wide-eyed doe-like wonder
That he’s even really here.
You want to brush that long dark hair
And freeze him there so free from care.
In the sanctity of his happiness
So soon betrayed, ashes, dust –
You catch it through the PC screen
Through forty years of time between.
You still feel so satisfied
When you can see him smile.