all I ever was:
metallic sheen of my
helmet, driving through
with
a jug of Sunday lemonade
perched predictably
on my faux leather
seat, beads of liquid
making quiet circles
that evaporate into
the sluggish summer
air.

your neighbourhood is
old, like the vespa that
rattles and groans
beneath my feet,
the trees grow tall,
spread their fingers
and
block the sun,
creating patterns on the
darkened pavement
like rust on the underside
of my conscience.

the wheels spin with
projected urgency,
whipping through
mundane traffic-coated
streets, my
pink scarf flailing
with the spirit
of a drowning Frenchman,
aubergine scooter
catapulting me to
help rescue you from
your good sense.