Dean's vista

Since to him Kay's as terrible as she was meant to be

  or worse (god help me!)
—since regarded as such we both courted the kill—
  
   Dean, real or imagined
I say (I do even now), even after the rain showers
  I saw him  alone, on a bench

smoke in hand, lounging jauntily 'gainst the back
  staring at the road ahead,

& at the dry, surly form who ran by, me, just me—

  he & I locked in a vista
helpless, terrified, seeing nothing in each other since
  we were tethered to same ol' Kay

  Dear god! I was dying to say,
as paternally as I was able, without even stopping:

  'The dusk's leaden after-glow

is nothing compared to this itch to kill, eh!'
  Dean flicked his ash
feet splayed in spring turf, shirt open, sockless
  
  and gave me a look
as if to say 'Who's to kill his Kay can only one man be!'

  Dean, who's an angry boy

and slightly leaner and angrier than I will ever be,
  with ash at his feet
shirt rolled up to the sleeves, & itching to kill

  suddenly turned to stone,
stone of 'Dean's Vista', just where buntings sing at dawn
  & the turf lies wet below