Tarmac Blues
The pavement is a tar pool
to the man who treks home
on a blooming avenue
of horse chestnut.
His brick laden eyes
stamp landmarks
to shorten the stretch:
some reddened railings;
a pillar box; The Rose.
His steps are long-
distance
haulage.
Then it comes, the day
he peels back the road,
turns over miles
on an updraft, riding
the cement like a bike lesson
for the first time
without adult hand,
without stabilisers,
without noticing.
