We stand in a doorway
opposite a bakery,
two boys, thin as breadsticks.
Our brains soft as dough.
‘You go first!’ ‘No! You go!’
We wait till the bakery clears
of mothers who might wallop us
with their tongues.
Then goad each other
as to who’ll grab the cash
in the till, who’ll bag
the cakes and buns.
Sixty years have passed, Gerry,
and we haven’t set eyes
on each other since.
But we’re still bound
like flour and water.
Today, I heard you had died
and I was back in the doorway.
‘It’s your turn. Go!’
I enter the bakery and leave
a twenty-pound note.
Owen Gallagher's current collection ‘Clydebuilt,’ Smokestack Books, was shortlisted for the Scottish Poetry Book of the Year, 2021.