The cyclist in the high viz jacket is
Late for work again.
So he pedals faster,
While the red light on his bike
Counts down the years
Till his Use By date.
He cycles away from his wife
Who was Best Before she had kids,
Away from his children,
Maturing in their suburban pine barrel,
Who won’t be ready till they’re thirty or so,
To his diary filled with
Meetings at some o’clock
That seem to have no end.
Tick, tock.

He is cycling to the holiday in America,
Boarded by sweaty children asking their mothers
When they’re going to get on.
He is cycling to his boss telling him
About the good work he’s done,
That it was just on time,
But there’s no promotion,
Just a bottle of wine.
He is cycling to a day
Punctuated by a sandwich lunch,
Because he has no time.
And then he’s stopped by his digital watch
Telling him it’s 9 o’clock
And he should be at work.
Tick, tock.