The Old days -5 April 2006

Going home,
I took your offer
Of a sharp ride
on the back
of your bike

In the sudden lashing of
rain, I turn to the blackening
sky, icy
drops needles my face and busy wind
touches me with
rough fingers
she rushes past
loathe to linger
When cold turns to freezing,
I press my face
onto soft warm leather
on your back
its musky scent
a familiar
dark comfort

my hands circle
your waist
a protective charm
against bad luck

light turns red

Time stills as you press both
my hands
against yours
in a brief morse code
of understanding