Dust-
The sky beats down on me, I am still and thinking. I keep waiting for it to be questioned, for someone to tell me this was wrong, that it really does make a difference, but I won’t hold my breath.
Perhaps… No, it was best not to think about it.
The air puckers between my molars, cheeks sucking in air tainted with petrol fumes and dust; leaving a bitterness in the back of my mouth that makes me salivate, wishing for other tastes. The water canteen winks in the sun.
I stare out at the empty road, at my motorcycle boots, my bare feet. Sweat trickles down my calves, ankles; and I am thinking that I may have to question this myself before long, if nobody else will. I tend to think like this a lot -in my more lucid moments- without the roar of the engine beneath me and the land-eating wheels carving the asphalt stretched out ahead to numb me, making me forget. But on that bike I would not give this up for anything. Even if it’s all a waste, even if the peace of mind only lasts as long as the petrol in the tank.
Still, it’s cheaper than therapy.
Defeated again be the seductive call of the machine, I strap the boots on quickly, so keen to be gone I can’t be bothered with socks and am thinking again of the first time I climbed onto that sleek beast and roared away, where no-one could tell me things that smudged like oily charcoal behind my eyes, trying to justify everything. I couldn’t care less for justice, and I hold no illusions on the fact that this cannot last forever. It won’t. But I don’t have to go back either, so I kick the bike into life again, and melt into the beast as it swallows me up.
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© Leah Petts 2012
-Because one day I'd like to ride a motorbike.
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