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I wheel my bike under
I wheel my bike under
the cathedral’s1 dark overhang.
Seized by a rictus2 of the wind,
the trees shed rain.
Rain slides down 5
Wale Street’s sleek, steep fall:
air is an ocean booming round
high, bare walls.
My hands freeze on
the bike’s crossbar, 10
seek the sodden saddle, toy
with the ice-cold bell:
I am suddenly fugitive,
homeless and cornered in
a caprice3 of pressure and cloud. 15
Then they cough and I know
I am not alone:
far back, against the great, nailed doors,
they huddle: troglodytes4
of night’s alcoves, 20
daytime’s shopping-malls,
parking lots, sparse green lawns,
municipal benches where
lunchtime’s city workers, stripping down
their food-packs, sit 25
in sober rows. 5
I fear to turn around,
stiffen in expectation
of the inevitable tugging at my sleeve,
wonder if I have any coins, 30
wonder why they do not bicker,
as they always do,
cursing their mother’s wombs
in tired robots’ tones,
why only this 35
curious, chuckling, liquid sound
drawing me around.
She has the usual wrappings on
stick-thin, brittle shins,
patchy-purple, quietly rotting 40
methylated spirits6 skin:
doekie7 of incongruous8 elegance crowns
the scabrous, half-bald skull.
Her man, grotesque
as a gargoyle9 roused from stone, 45
cradles an infant on his lap,
feeds it from a bottle with a teat,
makes the chuckling, crooning sounds
that turned me round,
that hold me now spellbound. 50
‘Good morning, sir,’ he says,
and his voice is grave
as a paterfamilias10 in his lounge.
Only the odd man out,
leaning against the harsh grey walls, 55
looks at me with carefully indifferent eyes,
finding me, alien on his home ground
wishing the clouds would break and I be gone,
ringing my bike’s absurd, small bell.
I push my bike under
the cathedral’s dark covering.
The wind's grip makes the trees lose their rain.
Rain flows down
Wale Street’s smooth, steep slope:
the air is like a loud ocean around
tall, bare walls.
My hands are cold on
the bike’s crossbar,
search for the wet seat, play
with the freezing bell:
I suddenly feel
like a runaway,
without a home, trapped in
a whim of weather and clouds.
Then I hear coughing and realize
I am not alone:
far back, against the large, nailed doors,
they gather: cave-dwellers
of night’s hiding places,
daytime’s shopping centers,
parking lots, sparse green lawns,
public benches where
city workers, during lunch, unpack
their meals, sitting
in neat rows.
I am afraid to turn around,
become tense expecting
the usual pull at my sleeve,
wonder if I have any money,
wonder why they aren’t arguing,
like they usually do,
cursing their birth
in tired, robotic voices,
why only this
strange, laughing, flowing sound
makes me turn around.
She wears the usual layers on
thin, fragile legs,
skin discolored and quietly decaying
from drinking spirits:
a headscarf of unexpected elegance sits on
her rough, half-bald head.
Her man, as grotesque
as a stone gargoyle come to life,
holds a baby on his lap,
feeds it from a bottle with a nipple,
makes the laughing, singing sounds
that made me turn,
that keep me captivated.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he says,
and his voice is serious
like a family head in his living room.
Only the outsider,
leaning against the hard grey walls,
looks at me with carefully neutral eyes,
seeing me as a stranger in his territory
hoping the clouds would clear and I would leave,
ringing my bike’s silly, small bell.