As a boy I did not sit dreaming
of a more exciting existence.
I simply pulled my black mask down
over my eyes, raised my weathered
garden cane sword and ran fearlessly into the sunlight
or the cold teeming drizzle of the street.
Today I am one ant in the line,
grounded by the air bag, held back
by the embrace of the seatbelt.
As I wait to pass this red light
I feel the mask of my childhood dropping
once more onto the bridge of my nose.
And then it is just me
and the three hundred horses of a ’75 Charger,
waiting with the rats and yesterdays newspapers
in a damp alley by a jewellery store.
Or maybe by a pair of black iron gates,
in the shadows of some country house.
Its owners turn on their mattresses in the moonlight,
whilst downstairs - among the riding boots and fly fishing reels
- men like me listen to the clicking tumblers of the safe
and pocket their priceless pieces of art.
And now in our kitchen with its leaking kettle
bills, junk-mail, I wonder…
how long can I keep my secret double life from the both of you?
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