My other self

There's a boy I used to glimpse,
with punk cut, black dyed hair
and morning stubble,
sitting thin in a mohair jumper and jeans,
his voice was cigarettes
through nicotine stained fingers
that pointed out the freedom of self belief
and dole queue haze.

I walk past him some days
and snatch the bottle from his hand
whisper in his ear of the secrets
of unkind years and the change
that is yet to come, rage in his face
with mute expressions of regret.
I'd smooth out my Captains map
and plot him a different chart
an early chance for a too late start.