Oxford Street, 1991

Until then we were immortal --
we drove up over the Parkway
the lights of his city blurred.
He had been younger than me. 


They hold each other
and kiss, reciting
their front-door litany --
“Last chance before we come back,
they don’t like poofters out there.”


I asked
Where’s your partner tonight?
he said
He’s dead


They wheeled him in
next to our hairless
muscled legs.

There we were, pumped up
all sass
in our boots and leather:

he was dying.
Next time I looked
a man with golden fans

was brushing life
into those emaciated hands.

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