Ian Stuart – 2 poems

Biker Boy

Slips like a minnow

through the stream of cars,

pulls a wheelie, slews

across the traffic flow

and flashes a finger, then

up on the pavement,

missing the old bird in a grubby duffel

by the thickness of a ciggy skin

hands free,

he’s off again up the road

to a fanfare of car horns.

And I’m wondering if

I’m angry

or  just envious.

An old man to his cock

That branch now droops, which once stood straight and  true.

The summer plums which hung upon the bough

are shrunk and shrivelled in the orchard now.

For I am old and, sadly, so are you.

Now irrigation is your only function,

the time to broadcast seed is long gone by.

We must accept the truth without compunction-

You can’t stand up, however hard we try.