Flying into town
that first time, leaning over
the gull-winged sweep
of the handlebars, the burn in my
pudgy, mad-pumping thighs
told me I was fast, was
free, was finally entering
the my country 'tis of thee
we'd all been singing,
sweet land of weekend-
playground liberty.
That mile I'd never ridden
was a hundred miles,
the fresh fall breeze speed itself
as those fat tires
snarled through dunes
of shoulder gravel and
eddies of falling leaves.
When I jumped the curb
onto the school's front sidewalk
town kids, exotic friends named
Cindy, Billy, Darlene, and Gary,
were already gathered, long
unchaperoned, at ease,
their preadolescences already
underway, their slow turn
toward my approach blasé
as I came skidding into
that newest of my old
neighborhoods of memory.
 
 
This poem first appeared in If god were gentle (Dos Madres Press, 2017).
Used here with permission.