10 feet from each others speeding wheels
they race through Admiral’s Park
shouting each other to be heard.
“I’ve not had sex since – Thursday, I think.
Can’t remember. What’bout you?”
“Na, can’t neither. Hold on, that was
them 2 fellas at the fair, was it?”
It’s Tuesday, the last 5 days a year to them.
The last of the sun shines through the clouds
an x-ray through a ribcage, hopeless.
These cycling girls aren’t more than 14.
The one in front, in black, freckled cheeks,
has puppy fat enough to light a corridor.
Her slimmer friend might become a pretty woman
except she’s learnt being a girl’s enough.
“Have you had sex with Brian? Yeah, me too.”
“D’you see his mole?”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t touch it. Might burst.
His mate’s nicer. And he don’t fart”.
They come to a halt where the park gives
to the road, stop to decide the direction
of their night. Cars pass like rainbows.
The last I see of them, they’re leaning
over winking handlebars, heading away
from the hesitant sunset toward
the lurid yellow grin of Mr MacDonalds,
still discoursing sex they barely recall.