Looking through the curtains
I see the cold cars huddled in
roadside rows
cars can’t cuddle
but bicycles know
bicycles know
bicycles know
how to do it.
Our bicycles:
getting flirty & dirty
with the furniture of the street
leaning on lamp-posts
wrapped around railings
adorning the folorn ordinarinesses
of the city
oblivious to failings
(what’s a bitty bit of rust between friends?)
locked tight in a night
they hope never ends
our bikes
handlebars spooning handlebars
pedals like fat ferrous fingers
gently stroke anothers spokes…
exposed & delicate
oily & intimate
our bicycles are like
love.
You may on occasion see a car
wrapped around a lamp-post.
This is just sex.