Much like conversations with shopkeepers and old people
I skilfully avoid the coil of dog shit on the cinder path
as the arse crack showing cyclist
swept passed me like my youth,
all his cares de-frosting in a bag for life
low slung from the handlebars;
dangerously close to one wheel;
translucent to the light.
His reckless rolling scattered the complaining birds
from the car driven to ashes
and the weeds and wildflowers
the names of which I never learned in school
but whose smell dragged me back
to where I found your candid Polaroid
that I kept and hid in my room.
© D. Archer. June 2015.
(The names have been invented to make me sound vaguely interesting).