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The Boys
They crawl in a line
along the esplanade
between beachfront mansions
and the bay's indifference,
windows down, elbows out,
hands tapping on doors in time
to the doof doof base
pulverizing air and eardrums
inside their metal sanctums
of pure testosterone.
Throbbing engines ease them
along the street, slow
and deliberate as if to give
pedestrians time to admire
and take in such potency.
An occasional pump
on the pedal sends a roar
rasping out of twin exhausts
and stutters a squeal
of tyres announcing to the locals
and all gathered, the "boys"
are here.
Marooned in another era,
they seem oblivious
to the derision flung at them
as they pass, misinterpreting
a smirk for an approving smile,
the shake of a head a gesture
of wonder rather than a judgment
on how silly they look.
Their egos blaze like the sun
reflected in polished chrome.
When satisfied
they've given onlookers their fill
of metallic porn, they hang a left,
plant their foot
and in a wake of tyre smoke
and deafening noise, rocket off
back to their own private planet,
time frozen somewhere
in the exhaust filled clouds
on the far side of their minds.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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