my last job in the city

working with people with politics

who I’d offended by telling my truth

they were the bourgeoisie preaching

to the unwashed hordes, me

& it didn’t matter I was struggling

there was no care there

that was saved for the masses

who very obviously needed it more

I was sleeping in the woods

had me a tent, sleeping roll

& my trusty Harley to get me to & fro

at the end of each day

I’d ride out to the forest

find a new spot to hide

set up my little encampment

eat a cold supper

open a bottle

& set to with the polishing rag

until the light dropped too low

that was a very clean bike

cleanest it had ever or would be

in the morning I’d pack it all up

strap it to the bike & ride with joy into town

jockeying from traffic light to light

with all the other bike commuters

hustling past the cars thru’ the jaywalkers

head into the shower put on clean clothes

& find some breakfast

nobody spoke much to me

I was to be the local pariah

deep in purdah spoken to only in necessity

there is a grace that comes with that

having to choose words carefully, wisely

aware there are traps waiting to be sprung

by willing apparatchiks wanting to serve the cause

subvert any vanilla message to ill will

ratpacking is strong with these

by night I polished the Harley

by day I polished my words

& counted the days down

much no doubt like they did too

until I could finally leave

no fare thee well party

cards for bon voyage

I took the money

& ran

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