Battered Angels, Shopping (Poetry)
14th July 2014
BATTERED ANGELS, SHOPPING
Fifty if she was a day —
maybe more.
Dressed for the July heat —
white cotten vest, faded denims
grubby canvas deck shoes
made the look complete.
That, and a rash of bruises, red-blue
blooming sore.
Untoned, her summer body
showed off its flab —
revealed the tattooed wings
eagle-spread across her back
the blurry feathers on her shoulder blades
drooping, grey and sad.
Then he appeared
round the corner of an aisle —
a matching battered husband
with a freshly-blackened eye
as though from some fierce fight —
a souvenir perhaps of last night’s
weekly one-too-many brawls —
both damaged in the ruck.
The couple had that worn-out biker mien —
Hells Angels gone to seed
but hanging on...
their wheels a shopping cart
poor cornering a handicap —
the glamour of the Harley a lost dream.
Fifty if she was a day —
maybe more.
Dressed for the July heat —
white cotten vest, faded denims
grubby canvas deck shoes
made the look complete.
That, and a rash of bruises, red-blue
blooming sore.
Untoned, her summer body
showed off its flab —
revealed the tattooed wings
eagle-spread across her back
the blurry feathers on her shoulder blades
drooping, grey and sad.
Then he appeared
round the corner of an aisle —
a matching battered husband
with a freshly-blackened eye
as though from some fierce fight —
a souvenir perhaps of last night’s
weekly one-too-many brawls —
both damaged in the ruck.
The couple had that worn-out biker mien —
Hells Angels gone to seed
but hanging on...
their wheels a shopping cart
poor cornering a handicap —
the glamour of the Harley a lost dream.