Fingernails

[Keith]

He knew what he was supposed to be,
two stroke raced in his blood line.
By the age of ten his dermatitis hands
could rebuild a gearbox and most engines,
he was good at connecting with his father.

At seventeen he was still pretending
in his worn out patched up jeans
and scuffed up road rashed leather,
long hair seemed to match the image,
but he hankered for change and its approval.

A young man's dilemma
can easily King Kong its way
to the top of the Empire State.
In one hand he had the girl
and the other, swatting planes away
for fear of getting caught,
he needed to escape.

A damp tiny flat was perfect for that,
the journey from A to B or biker to mod.
Clothes became his bodies’ passion
nervous of the target on his back.
He burned his brightest into mirrored chrome,
smiling at a true reflection.

Clubs and drugs took away time
passing hands and faces in dark doorways
but the morning paper always unfolded
with a coffee and a shave.
I like to think he found a pillion for his scooter,
who tasted the same without the shame,
a two wheeled screamer that would hug him hard
and hold on tight to his fish tail.