Hardly David's

Where desperate neon cries,
and footpaths ooze under his feet.
Where worn, scarlet women shine hollow
and inked voyagers come and go.
Where two-wheeled monsters glisten
and huddle side-by-side in a pack.
Where idly, their masters sit by,
he admires their villainous guise.

Standing next to the beasts,
both slaves and each others' masters,
he eyes the polished machine,
he wants to feel the ride.
Fwah, to saddle the machine, gently,
to hold on and grab the reigns,
to be a Rebel, a Cavalier,
a mask in the great leather clan.

He enquires and the guy says, "sure",
so he braces the prized bull.
With spread legs he holds sword handles
and is instantly dominant, supreme.
He looks at the owner and utters,
something about a fine set of wheels.
“You better watch out”, he laughs,
“That’s not my bike you know!”

His time with them is up,
off the bike, the crime-scene, he flees,
through laneways with hungry red-lights,
and alleys that prey on the street.