Maxwell’s Silver Hammer
Solo ride out and a white van
sees you as sport, buzzes from behind ,
overtakes then sharply cuts you up,
only experience keeps the bike from
slewing across the road .
Eyes stoked with mischief ,
you confess, always ride ‘tooled up’ .
the slim but sturdy hammer tucked
inside a quick draw pocket.
Throwback to the bad land 70s.
You give chase until riding adjacent .
One hand on the accelerator,
the other draws the hammer, smashes
the van’s side window like peanut brittle,
brakes scream ; you are a speck on the horizon.
Your revelation briefly shakes
like the boom of distant ordnance .
But I choose to marvel at your stunt rider skill,
train my anger on the van driver ,
who casually conspired to make me a widow.
Yet this exploit reminds that getting to
the bottom of anyone is like
fathoming the universe with the naked eye .
And I admit there are even times when
I become a stranger to myself.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be
pleased to hear them