Ripped leather flowers

[Keith]

Each year the pavement is buried,
pillion passengers carry crushed flowers
tucked inside black leather jackets,
faded faces veiled under gypsofilia,
drinking beer from old vases.
Diminished tributes falling flat
on just another wasted road-rash.

Once vibrant petals lose their colour
and that string tied photograph fades
like the sepia memories
they try to crayon in each year.
Swapping stories like trading cards,
old bikers stuck in slip-road ruts.

You wont find me leaning on that tree
throwing posies at your feet
or nailed on a lamppost cross
wearing that flaking crown of chrome.

What's that you say boys?
yes, back in the day boys.
Maybe I did sell out, but it's late
and I'm not your mate,
so ask me again about our friend
and I'll tell you how your story ends.

[nibbed]

It's beautifully unique, your poet's voice filled with wonderful cadence as I read this, your lovely poem.

My daddy had this carving of a lamppost with an inebriated fellow leaning up against it. When you pulled the lamp part off, a corkscrew popped out. If you beheaded the fellow, a bottle opener appeared. It was stained in dark grays, tans, and a sepia nose hinted a once brighter red. Dad had stolen it from the Dahlinger Estate where he worked in Dearborn, or picked it from the outgoing trash there, where he said he found many treasures. I wasn't allowed to touch it, but I remember staring at it when I was a little girl. Fascinated that secret things were hiding inside and wondering about the story of the man who leaned against the lamppost, quiet and lonely. Even though its use and form represented a lifestyle that had cursed my own family, I was drawn to it because it was muted, soft, and lovely looking. It truly looked like a representation of loneliness. It was so masterfully carved and painted, it appeared the lamp was actually lit. I always wondered what had happened to the relic, likely lost through one of dad's divorces or thrown in a box at a stepsister's yard sale. I would have liked to have had it, even though it went against my life. I thought about it when I was reading your poem, that same feeling that I got when I was a child and would look at the carving, wondering about the story of that man.

What a wonderful thing when a poem can pick us up and take us to another place.
Thank you, Keith. You are a fine gifted poet.


nibbed

[Keith]

Thanks for your kind comments nibbed, much appreciated, I liked the lamp with all its gadgets, sounds collectable. Best Keith