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
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.