On his old Raleigh bike

that teetered with every slow push,

his sphere stomach hung

skin bloated and cracked, from under his beer-stained vest.

 

His mobile home nested

below peering blackbirds’ nests,

one broken window boarded

a cause of children’s miscellaneous missiles.

 

Him passing; I still clearly hear

his cover of Seven Drunken Nights

or maybe some lost rebel song.

The rust of his bike sizzling from the frying yoke of sun.

 

Like a blinded rabbit

he had no clue what hit him,

he left the pub at ten,

departed at half.

 

The bicycle; mangled and twisted.

He; skull cracked. His brains

scrambled,

eyes poached.

 

And now all that cycles; drudging into town,

past the shops, the church; is some memory.

Cycling his way home from the pub.

As full as an egg.