Parky his son and me we were like the three musketeers; what a team.
We did the lot as one; chatted up the girls, got high, fell in a stream.
For a laugh after a drunken binge, we slid down a hill on a metal tray.
We broke a few bones, no more musketeers, once legend now history.

Once recovered went our separate ways, down our chosen pathway.
Over the years we had gone mainstream, life was more than okay.
After a while I wondered, just what had become of Parky and his son.
Placed an ‘add’ in the paper to bring us together for that big reunion.

A few days later I got a call from Parky; we sorted a meet; in a wine bar.
I was early; I sat in the window gazed absently at each passing car.
Time passed; I glanced at my watch; they were running a little late.
Lifting my glass of red; I drank; went to lift food from a china plate.

Caught sight of this classy car; parking in the disabled parking bay.
Out got these two guys; they looked familiar; the youngest did sway.
I began to take notice at these two; they walked slowly toward the bar
They saw me; waved; said that I’d looked obtuse I was told soon after

In walked Parky and his son, he was 60 and his son was now just 44.
I tried not to; couldn’t stop staring at this guy; one of the lads before.
Both sets of limbs moved; like a tap dancer in a never ending routine.
We sat there transfixed; nobody else existed; I needed more red wine.


This was my mate; the same age as me; how and what should I say?
He came to my rescue explaining, he had ‘Early onset Parkinson’s’, eh!
The floodgates opened; we talked for hours; my eyes filled with tears.
Had we changed? Time had maybe, but we’re still the three musketeers.




© Phil Golding