Dean's Vista

(a transformation myth)

Since to him Fay's as terrible as she was to me

   or worse (god help me!)

—and regarded as such we felt the same—

Dean, real or imagined

I say (I do even now) even after an evening rain

I saw alone on a bench,

smoke in hand, lounging jauntily 'gainst the back

staring at the road ahead,

& at the dry gray guy who came running by, me—

and locked eyes with me,

who felt a little shy, seeing he had something to say

& that something was Fay,

   Dear god! he was dying to say

as paternally as he was able, & without shaking

"Morning hang-over

is nothing compared to this itch to kill, eh!"

Dean flicked his ash,

feet crossed under him in the wet sprig turf,

and gave me a look

as if to say "Who's killing Fay can only one man be."

Dean, who's an angry boy

and slightly leaner and taller than I'll ever be,

   with ash at his feet,

shirt rolled up and clearly itching to kill,

   suddenly turned to stone,

stone of 'Dean's Vista', just as the bunting flew in,

   wet turf at their feet