When he made

his first personal appearance

in the dirty alley

on someone else’s rusty bike,

screaming along

in a cloud of dust,

it rendered us all

speechless and motionless.

But I was amazed

that despite his grey-faced surliness,

he was very affable with us...

the bully with a naive

and sentimental heart.

He was so happy

to hear that I liked his dad,

or that my mum liked him,

and he was welcome

to come to tea

with us at five twenty five...

Our adventures were spectacular:

chasing after other bikesters,

screaming at the top

of our lungs

into blocks of flats,

and then running

as our echoed waves of terror

blended with incoherent threats...

“I’ll call the Police, I’ll...”

Wicked cahoots.