In the supermarket car park
I parked my Kawasaki
400 ZRX, new and gleaming,
locked it took the key
and turned to go, when
I was accosted by an oldish chap
who praised the bike and we
exchanged some technicalities;
he’d been a dispatch rider
once, and he asked me if he might
look closer at my motorbike.
“You’re very welcome, but I
will have to go now,
for I’m running late”,
I said. Too late now—I wish
I’d given him my time,
not walked away, but stayed to talk,
for a look of disappointment
flashed across his face, ‘crestfallen’
was the word that came to mind.
I realize now that what he’d really wanted
was a chat, and I had walked away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem