Inches

The day Jeremy and Boris came to Perth
we were travelling by bike,
crossing a side street
when we met a man I'd never seen: 
Forties, grey suit, a stranger
on his way to the debate perhaps
or homeward from the station to wealthy Kinnoull.

His red face opened to speak.
I slowed, 
smiled,
expecting an enquiry, directions.
Angrily, his voice rose, 
Unfortunately English, 
(I say, with contagious prejudice):
"Shouldn't you guys be on the road?"
and he wagged his umbrella, high. 

I couldn't hear at first for the traffic
and the lorry thundering past
on the ring-road
by a roundabout
without a cycle lane.

It's his outrage that remains
and watching my ten-year-old, 
ride ahead on the empty pavement,
taking, conscientiously, the outside,
and still within inches.