Friday, June 29, 2018

THEY STOLE MY BIKE; POEM.


They stole my bike (the motherfuckers);
One week in the city and I come back,
one afternoon,
to find that all that was left 
of my Carrera Crossfire
was a snipped cable,
lying dead on the ground
like a sliced snake,                  
And the faint shadow
of the bike’s essence;
Two ghostly wheels,          an imaginary frame and
a carrier that was not really there.         

They stole my bike (the motherfuckers);
My ass had spent hours
on that saddle,
moulding it to my shape.
In the pannier on the side
I had had my winter gloves,
a half bottle of water,
a book token
that still had €7 on it.
Something tells me that
the gurriers that took it,
would not be using the token.

They stole my bike (the motherfuckers);
after six months of hardly
walking anywhere,
I now have to measure distances
in half hours, not
small multiples of five minutes.
I move my legs and wonder why
it takes so long to get places,
why I can no longer coast down hills
or use sixth gear
or weave in and out of traffic.
I am reminded of
how much walking sucks.

They stole my bike (the motherfuckers);
They are now in possession of all
of the strange vocabulary of
the bicycle world;
My spokes, saddle, mudguards,
gear cables, handlebars,
brake pads, USB lights,
bicycle bell, twenty one inch frame,
black, plastic pannier.
They now own these words
and the things attached,
while I am left with
an orphan helmet,
and a lock attached to nothing.

They stole my bike, (the motherfuckers);
As if it was theirs to take,
as if private property was an illusion;
a bourgeois concept to keep
the working class down.
It may have been an
ideological act,
a redistribution of wealth,
socialism in practice.
Or maybe they were just
scumbags.

They stole my bike (the motherfuckers);
In the station, the guard said that
I had no hope of seeing it again,
that I should accept that it was gone.
I nodded, resigned,
but felt like asking,
why the forces of law and order
were so powerless
in the face of a teenage skanger
with a wire cutters.
“Shouldn’t there be a sting operation”,
I wanted to know,
swat teams, special forces,
The Coast Guard, the Garda
helicopter. Where were
the emergency response team,
the Army, the sub-aqua unit?
“Get your best men on the case,”
I wanted to demand,
“don’t you realize
that they stole my goddamn bike?”

They stole my bike, (the motherfuckers);
They stole it, and they stole it good. 



6 comments:

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THIS TIME - POEM.