Accusation Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

You don't have mudguards
she said, delicate boned
below the transparent almonds
of her haughty lorgnette
a failure of
culture it is, then
I, feel
too soon dragooned into
preparing
for monsoon
the pearls remain fingered
and the question lingers
an ectoplasm of
steam from the
La Gaggia machine hovers
above our heads like a
comic strip speech bubble
'no' I say 'mudguards are
too much trouble'
not to have mudguards
in this country with
its green squares in
patchwork quilt not
having mudguards
is an observation
by those who choose
sensible shoes
owners of houses in
the Dordogne who dimly
suppose they know
the rules of cricket
where rain
can stop play,
clearly, they
don't understand the
essence of cycle racing
they
who are in tune with
barbour and dogs and all
things british.
Here, in not sporting
mudguards, I show myself
to be no better than
a whirling devil,
likely to run amok
upsetting the tea things
inspite of lashings
of tutoring
from Dan Dare
keeping in check
those grim faced Treens
I ride uneasy I
ride away, away,
rootless, orphaned
again and again
life chained to unbeing
on these indecent and
unsheathed wheels
afraid to tread this
minesewn English soil