Voices
Richie was his name,
voices were his game.
Silly towering boy of twelve summers,
aimed to be a comedian,
yet always had his head underground;
constantly we were in trouble
for something that was never my fault.
Some days, that energising, impish,
charming smile could send
all the wrong messages.
Danger always looked his way
but he took it all as a way to live, something to grin about;
foul-mouthed, explosive Trashmouth Tozier,
blood running from his lips,
his eye blackening, glasses splintered into his white face,
and yet he continued to beam.
Beep-Beep Richie!
Instantly
he could switch into somebody else
altogether.
Instantly,
effortlessly, he had all the Losers
singing his praises.
They thought the world of him,
that auburn-haired, spectacled, freckled, sinewy,
boy of many identities —
Irish cop, Kinky Briefcase Sexual Accountant —
he could be anything!
Eat your heart out, Bowers!
