This City Has No Bicycle Bells
This city has no bicycle bells.
The children of this city talk to their parents: ring ring.
Acquaintances are neighbours while friends roam on the Net
and fall off when the wires are dog-tripped. Then itıs all a black
fog screening over the next few days when the computer
is hijacked and the sun is blamed for its peephole performance.
The black jelly skirmishes on the moonıs full face
nobody notices. Unlike everywhere else dusk is brighter
than morning and itıs Diwali marooned out
in a sea of cubical lighthouses, each flat and house fat
with the echoes of tv. The fathers of this city are slightly
taller than the mothers of this city, who father the sons and
daughters of this city as almost equals; no witchhunt and not
women who like to wear their hair short. Fitness is diet and diet is
as diverse as the foods of four races but the champion has long
wealth. Stored in provident funds, in stocks and bonds, or realised
into the bricks of less humble roofs whose owners fumble
the keys to garages, safes, iceboxes and bedtime stories of
success. Here everyone knows education is a thing of beauty
but as a child who
learned to pray, worship, economise, share, hope, expect
and analyse, always a day
before yesterday what can I possibly say to an adult who cannot
believe how few things I accomplished today
one of which is this idea I know my part.
It is night and I am still full of words.
By Bridget-Rose LeeQLRS Vol. 3 No. 4 Jul 2004