Poetry By Paul Sutton

Your Boy
 
The dead – they never get to hear 
how happy those they loved are.
 
Your boy – I saw him crossing the street, 
not a care, maybe he'd been cutting grass
 
in the middle of a roundabout or eyeing up 
girls in a bar – whichever – doesn't matter.
 
He looked happy. I passed in the car and
can't claim acquaintance, just sat detached. 
 
That's how we can see people in seconds,
then read them – and feel contentment in
 
how someone moves to face the sun.
I knew you'd like to know – but can't.
 
So impossible now, those colours of
the past. It isn't that they've faded –
 
just that sight would need a journey, 
a stolen glimpse at what's been lost.
 


​Bio: Paul Sutton, Born in London, 1964. Five collections - most recent from UK publisher Knives, Forks and Spoons Press: "The Diversification of Dave Turnip", March 2017. "Falling Off" (KFS, January 2015) was Poetry Book Society Recommended Autumn Reading, 2015. US Collection "Brains Scream at Night" (2010) from NY publisher BlazeVox.