It leant ‘gainst the railings, tomato red,
no scratches on the seat, unworn tyre tread.
So new that the rubber smell was still faint in the air,
A bike so shiny it returned the sun’s glare.
Then out came the kid, for his morning roam,
unwashed and unbrushed as if disowned,
Unlaced shoes and clothes drenched in smoke,
And a body only nourished by burgers and coke.
He spotted the bike and his cheeks grew hot,
What was something so posh doing in his spot?
The bike was laughing at him he could tell.
Humiliated, he grabbed the bike by its bell,
and dragged it along, not caring as it tipped
onto its side and the new tyre ripped
and the new paint was scratched. But people just stared
as he crossed behind the houses and into his lair.
He threw the bike down on a pile of sludgy chips,
he could smell fear as he ran his hand over his lips.
It was really just the metal but the kid got a kick
from thinking the bike was terrified, and he picked
up a metal bar which he’d used the week before,
and smashed and crashed the bike into the floor.
He pissed on the handle bars and spat on the seat,
the laughing had stopped and the bike admitted defeat.
It lay there silently, its broken bones scattered
amidst the other toys, the kid had shattered.
A graveyard of toys, where attacks are unfurled
on anything the little boy thinks is too good for his world.
TEXT by Emily Bone + IMAGES by Andrew Denholm