Olive

Sometimes when I ride my bike,
late seventies racer in creme,
I have a bag of olives hanging from
the loop of my drop handle bars.
Often they are large Gaeta,
the colour of worn suede,
but today they are oil black Kalamata;
no stones. Before I ride I thumb a hole
through the plastic. At traffic lights
and on quiet roads I claw one out,
scoff it whole, leaving a trail in oil that stops.

I have my fore finger in my mouth
when you don't see me;
no lights and no helmet. The T
junction is freckled with full stops.