The car broke down today,
on a cold, pre-Winter morning,
and left us with options three:
We catch a bus and learn the ropes
of never-ever staring,
of leaning left and right
when staggering turns
are made at red,
of pretending not to notice
when the man beside us slobbers
as he speaks,
to neither you or I
or anyone in-between.
We take our bikes out from the shed
and put our lives at stake,
looking out for racing trucks
and jeeps that honk
their harried horns,
that run us off the road
and to an icy curbside tumble,
wrought with bumps and cuts
and shaken nerves.
Third and final pains us most:
we walk in awkward silence,
the crunch of frosted sod,
the small-talk that we mutter
saying we are strangers,
each step along the path
revealing all that’s lost
and wanting.
