—in a midi skirt, a stiff one/

—in a midi skirt, a stiff one/
jutting out/ with ripped tights on/
I’d scored some work, and spent the afternoon
in Notting Hill, looking at the faces
of undercover policemen/ in speeding unmarked cars/
I rode around, making eyes with women;

did I tell you about my childhood?
A pint of beer, and a packet of salt and vinegar.
The crisps were for me, and the beer ...
You know what I’m saying.

It was 44 miles, round trip:
I thought of dweebs I’d known,
& how I rarely had to see them;
I cycled with no hands, to the Serpentine,
past the really really rich people
who were pretending to be interesting,
the really really rich people,
who were perversely some kind of tourist magnet

& I rode the slipstream of a bus, through Fulham,
there was a paparazzo in Chelsea,
but the *famous* rich people? They were just a decoy;

someone in lycra overtook me,
I was riding a heavy bicycle, in corduroys,
and I pulled that trick, where I suddenly caned it behind him/
I took his wheel, & rode his slipstream through Putney,

“We plebs know our place,” I’d joked,
“Oh, and where’s that?” she’d asked, looking at me,

I dropped the peloton behind, wearing a shirt, and with luggage;
although soon enough, in turn, a beefy guy in lycra would drop me;

“At the barricade,” I said,
“with a knife in the boot,
no turning back,
holding a fucking rifle.”