You head out the usual way
along the North Circular to the Ace Café
to hang out with all the other sad old gits,
you say. You give each other the time of day
over one-pound mugs of tea, exchanging tips
about silencers, chrome or black or chrome.
The conversation you really have
is made of things you do not say
before dusk settles down and you head home,
pale rider displaced in time.
In your pocket the pound coins chime
as you pull away,
