these two, slow-riding
a clown-tiny bicycle
up my gradual hill, one
 
slightly larger, pedaling,
swaying over the seat,
the other lock-kneed
 
astride the rear tire, feet
fixed to steel axle pegs,
his two hands holding
 
the bigger boy's hips above
the pistons of his thighs.
Meanwhile, their happy
 
chatter, which I can hear
but not quite make out,
goes on nonstop even when
 
the pedaler's left slip-on
slips off and the smaller,
touching down on the run,
 
retrieves and positions it
to slip back on. Seamless,
like a two-man bob-sled
 
crew, except to resume
an ascent, they regroup
and push off, wobbly
 
then steady as before, and
vanish around the corner
toward the convenience store.
 
Or maybe they're best friends,
like Jimmy and me, in'63, him
pedaling, me hanging on.

 
This poem first appeared in Talking River Review.
Used here with permission.