Running in

Birth is mundane, a mere formality A realization of dreams, or of lust. In the nurse’s arms, swaddled in clothes, The baby screams, or whimpers with eyes shut. This is it; you have bought it, my lad. Formalities over, the manager stands up The key in his cupped palms. Theatrical, he pauses as if in a short prayer And drops it into your open palm. In her flowered dress, hair braided Arm resting around the baby on her left Proof of my manhood, her motherhood She looks at him, at me, in gratitude and love. I stand a little apart, look uncomprehending At the beast, silent; glittering chrome Massive tyres, sweeping handlebars Steely machine, graceful, powerful. Go on, she says, don’t be scared, Hold him close, your son, my gift. Gingerly, I touch his palm- My finger, too big – Yet, he grips – I let it all flow Into him, into him, into him. I straddle, caress the head Contact; thumping deep, The machine rumbles to life. Gently throttling, I nurse him to move on - I lead him into the streets of chaos.