The real Rabbie

The real Rabbie

I first met Rabbie

when we were eight,

scarpering down our street,

barefoot, cold

and looking back laughing,

raging Mammy after him

like a shambling sack o’ tatties,

headmaster strap in hand:

“c’mere ye wee bastart!”

I loved him immediately.

Then that time we had stolen beans

pen-knifed out the tin,

two slices of Mother’s Pride

with no butter, no heat,

except for the mischievous sun

on his face:

when I fell for the bairns

of the whole human race.

14/1/23