He wears his helmet like a second head
set up to fall. His bike is all he loves
except it can’t love back, so in love’s stead
he rides, and riding, smokes his fag to stubs.
He thinks a life of cuss and crotch and spit
okay, that broken is a state of grace
not shame, that he knows where the money is
right now, that life’s a shop-bought masquerade
of face and name and word. He doesn’t doubt
the what he’ll have to do to make it work,
or run. He doesn’t know, but he’ll find out,
along the road where monsters pray for dark.