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,
the slaves and the masters,
he eyes a polished machine,
he wants to feel the ride.
To saddle the machine, gently,
to hold on and grab the reigns,
to be a Rebel, a Cavalier,
masked in the great leather clan.
He asks and the guy says, “sure”,
so he braces the prized bull.
With spread feet he holds two sword handles
and looks 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.