A courtyard, staircases you could almost
leap down landing to landing,
walkways, galleries, acoustic blast
as of a theatre – the bricks are handing
on the Elizabethans’ bloody past,
ills the state is still mishandling.
Down from the Bermuda triangle, one standing
holding the bicycle, the other sits on the last
step to the courtyard & does some quick rebranding:
white socks and baseball cap, and then the jeans
need something doing to them. Steadfast
and steady where the cross bar leans
his young mate waits, already dressed.
One black, one white – they have this understanding:
The right trouser’s rolled to the knee. Neat-pressed
the other is left long, an act of will.
The tall black boy is through and will ride fast,
stand on the pedals with handling skill.
His tandem sinewy, unharassed
gets neatly in the saddle – notwithstanding
us in the gods, their swagger isn’t sussed.
They slip from here, through speed and light expanding.