Cycling

Lungs breathing free,

Cycling, three hours, across the city.

No helmet, no fluorescent jacket,

A white light flicker-flushing at oncoming wheels.

Knees hurt at every revolution.

So tired that stale teenagers make me angry,

Stealing my water at the crossroads,

Laughing,

Joking that they stole fifty quid.

Not funny.

I don't have fifty quid.

That's why I'm biking all this way.

Biking in the dark without a back light.

Without a helmet, without a yellow jacket.

Lungs breathing red bus exhausts,

And late night orange London lustre.

Cycling, free, across the city.