Sunday, April 28, 2019

THIS TIME - POEM.

This is a sequel to a previous poem called, They Stole My Bike. 


This time (28/04/19)

This time, the motherfuckers             
left me my bicycle but stole
other related stuff:
petty accoutrements,
tiny addendums,
minor accessories
to my cycling life.                  

I came out and saw I had lost three
random pieces of my bike’s
equipment; the front light - €5 in Halfords –
had been pocketed – though they had
left the red back light, hidden under the saddle
like a mouse cowering behind a sideboard.

Then I checked the saddle bag;
my waterproofs had disappeared –
worth all of €15 in some outdoors-y shop
that makes you feel like you are in touch
with nature
just by being there.

Lastly, the hi-vis vest, in all its
reflective yellow horror,
had been swiped,
my gilet jaune, the €4 in Lidl
insurance policy that made me
conspicuous on the roads.
The flimsy fluorescent garment
that could have saved my life,
was obviously too tempting
for the thief who rummaged through
my pannier bag.

It was my own fault;
I had forgotten that I was in Dublin,
den of thieves,
home of pilferers, my naïve western
perspective had left me open to
being fleeced. I shrugged; it was now
part of the deal when you spent time
in our capital, where filching stuff
is an accepted form of spending
your day.

The only thing is,
they left the carrier bag;
my detachable, well made
little sack that hangs off
the back of the vehicle,
like the pouch of a kangaroo,
the bill of a pelican.
It is my way of transporting
the tools of my trade,  
of keeping my shopping safe,
my spare clothes dry.

It was the only thing – apart from the
bike itself – that was worth stealing,
€45 in bike shops, almost new,
blemish-free; it would have been
a matter of seconds
to detach it from the frame and run away.
It could have served as something
to carry the rest of the swag in,
if they had been thinking.

Were these thieves with a conscience,
robbers who would go so far,
but no further? Light-stealers,
waterproof-nabbers, but who would draw
the line at swiping a slick new bag?

Or were they just dumb,
these motherfuckers, too stupid
to twig that if you rifle through a bag
for something to steal, you could
just steal the whole fucking bag
and sift later.

Good luck to them,
I thought;
they will be well-lit and highly
visible when they commit
their next crime. And their low-slung
jeans will be kept nice and
dry by my green, nylon pants,
though they do get a bit sweaty
if it is warm out.

I was just glad that – this time –
that they had left me the two wheels,
the frame, my pointy black saddle,
the handlebars that stick out,
like the antlers of a deer. It helped,
I suppose, that my new bike is a
piece of shit, and not worth stealing,
even by bike-hungry Jackeen kleptomaniacs
that live to spoil someone’s day.

I sat up on the saddle and cycled off,
happy, at least, that I didn’t have to walk.








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THIS TIME - POEM.