Its him again with anther comepletly different piece. Tell me if you can't
keep up. Somebody said this was too long. It was written for a significant
birthday a while back, though I'm not quite there yet.

THE SKATEBOARD PENSIONERS

There's the click, click click of wheels
like metal over metal on rails as they scoot
past in a line, a train with litle legs
in cut-off Oxford bags that set off feet
clad with big Nike trainers that silently pound
the concrete slabs to propel their boards forward
and all accord to reverse baseball cap status
to achieve maximum streamlined speed.

Beneath the head gear
peep whisps of grey and white hair,
on males a well groomed whisker or two
on females at least one blue rinse
and another a twin set and pearls.

Other people dodge out of the way
jump into shop doorways for safety
as the skateboard pensioners belt
up and down the streets without care.

In all the hurly burly of their free show
its as if they know they need to perform,
digress to carry out their repetoire of stunts -
one does dare-devil stuff on a wheel chair ramp
as another does a noisy glissade
and a flamenco dancer stomp on the end
of his board and watches through the upper end
of bifocals as it spirals in the air
as working people, kids just out of school,
shopkeepers in fear for their properties,
all just stop and stare until the click, click, click
of wheels over pavement slabs begin again
to a collective sigh of let out air

On their sweatshirts the signs of complete anarchy:
READY TO GO ANYTIME
SPENT THE FUCKING LOT
HIP REPLACEMENTS ARE HIP

The last words haunt as much as threaten
WE'LL BE BACK NEXT PENSION DAY.






bw
James


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