THE CYCLIST

A cyclist with a head injury

stumbled into the party

dispensing wisdom and insight

effortless philosophy in an approachable way

his forwardness welcome and his rhetoric 

unflinching

All night he stayed,

staggered and swayed, 

pupils black and gaping,

placid midnight pools

his gaze unbreaking

An intensity that would not falter,

bleeding life advice for amnesiacs.

Stranded and abandoned in the desert

we latched on

thirsty for water, 

leeching whatever drop of moisture we could

from the fruits of this sweat-soaked oasis.

Inciting revelations within the undeserving

lives were changing,

though we’d be too stumbling drunk 

to remember it all 

in the light of day

that slowly crept into the sky,

as the light

in his eyes 

began to recede

Before he left

he wiped his beaded brow

Pushing aside his helmet

I spied a glimpse of

pink thinking flesh.

Thick jam stains the carpet

where he once walked

and chain grease too

the only evidence of this fading prophet

I confess I’d known the injury was there

the moment he shambled in

but I needed his words

I wish could remember them

I wish I could remember his face

But it’s gone

And I’m here,

belly and brain

bloated with poison,

waiting for another accident 

to send to me and the remaining ungrateful

someone mortally wounded

to offer the drink we need 

yet don’t have the strength to hold 

to our lips

He held up the cup

I drank

Leaving none for him

He was found in the stairwell

that afternoon

He died in hospital 

the next night