Classic Poem

A boy of fifteen,
he wore a jacket, dark shirt, wool tie,
his bright eyes studying earnestly
Androcles and the Lion
in the Shavian alphabet . . .
His friend, a few years older,
blond and bundled in overcoat and scarf,
carried a flute
as they sat at the next table
of a cafe in Toronto.
My friend knew the younger boy
and I asked her who they were.
" He used to be a nice, ordinary kid,"
she said; " Then he met him — Brett.
Brett took him to Montreal,
did things to him . . . I don't know . . .
they're fags . . . you know . . . Music Room types."
When they left, they were laughing,
planning how to spend Brett's paypacket.
I noticed they'd written in Shavian
all over the serviettes.
That's what corruption does for you.