A smoke and a puff we shared, a tiny screen brimming Hopper’s bike
Raging the crestways shade gaze a mountainous terrain takes
Two nineteen year olds would never see but dream.
We laughed at Nicholson’s smile, youth and belined
By a smile he’d never chase again on a career more
Sociopathic than nuanced, less free by the script.
Fonda was the eye of two guys not always inclined
To bugger and beat, though this was the street
Bohemia and thought walked pierced hats
In darkened clothes shared cloaked and heady.
Joked,smoked and earlopped, we laughed at the world
Weeded on materials paid and packaged
Devices they stored for batteries battered.
Biscuits covered thirst burst our bubble
Huddling in a wet room, biscuit crums
Led the stairs to more smokes and thoughts
Only friendship makes sense of.
A welding night bestowed outward,
Scribbled torn pages placed inwards,
A road that leads forward we’d travel, no doubt.
A sad day for reparteé when the screen died,
And we bared our paired souls over coffees poured,
With Gatsby and Davis aligned with Queen’s records
Enshrined in our heads for another time and day,
To discuss the morals Dennis Hopper placed on the minds
Two boys of an impressionable age would share.
To a time and a person I’ll always cherish. x