Ripped leather flowers

Each year the pavement is buried,
pillion passengers carry crushed flowers
tucked inside black leather jackets,
faded faces drinking beer, veiled
under sprigs of gypsofilia.
Diminished tributes fall flat
on just another wasted road-rash.

Once vibrant petals lose their colour
and that string tied photograph fades
like the sepia memories
they try to crayon in each year.
Swapping stories like trading cards,
old bikers stuck in slip-road ruts.

You wont find me leaning on that tree
throwing posies at your feet
or nailed on a lamppost cross
wearing your flaking crown of chrome.

What's that you say boys?
yes, back in the day boys.
Maybe I did sell out, but it's late
and I'm not your mate,
so ask me again about our friend
and I'll tell you how your story ends.