Ideal

You have that eternal quality
like raspy loaves drawn on a hob
from the stone heated cavern
the sun beating down and
hair all over the place
those lines etched defiantly into
your forehead evidence of carefully
placing one foot in front of the others
a plan that arrived on a ship
Boudicia holding onto the rocks
singing imperfectly as the gin
seeps down saturating both the skin
and that perfect bone structured
presence a life in words balanced
with care on razors
crafted screw turned fever
nails that curled back and pieced the skin
of your hand held out for politicians
and drunken enemies to grasp, attempt
to disable or crush but that glance so deadly
or that tongue so unforgiving
what can the poor boys do
except run along the beach
drops of fear falling from their
raw bodies.