A pillion for the parade

He knew what he was supposed to be,  
two stroke raced in his blood line.  
By the age of ten his dermatitis hands  
could rebuild a gearbox and most engines,  
he was good at connecting with his father.  

At seventeen he was still pretending  
in his worn out patched up jeans  
and scuffed up road rashed leather,  
long hair seemed to match the image,  
but he hankered for change and its approval.  
 
A young man's dilemma  
can easily King Kong its way  
to the top of the Empire State.  
In one hand he saw the girl  
and the other, swatting planes away  
for fear of getting caught,  
he needed to escape.  
 
A damp tiny flat was perfect for that,  
the journey from he to she.
Clothes became her bodies’ passion  
nervous of the target on her back.
she burned her brightest into mirrored chrome,  
smiling at a true reflection.  
 
Clubs and drugs took away time  
passing hands and faces in dark doorways  
but the morning paper always unfolded  
with a coffee and a shave.  
I like to think she found a pillion for her scooter,
who tasted the same without the shame,  
a two wheeled screamer that would hug her hard  
and hold on tight to her fish tail.