I know that leaning against the wall it doesn’t look like much, but
it’s assembled dreams, each whirr
& cog, click & hornet’s nests &
mostly air, mostly breath.
It’s history & politic churned
over & the scrapes we got into & didn’t get
out of in one piece. The pieces
recall strength, desires (real ones now, Herculean & Rosa
Parksian) to get down
to the work, man, down
to the river, to get over coming down
on ourselves.
By itself, leaning
against a tree or jammed into a metal stand it stands
with our patience, its latent, unused, reserved
rev up
just asking for it. If a bicycle
lays on the ground & no one’s there to ride it
does it still make those sounds? Wait! Don’t
answer that, don’t
let decisions be made for you, don’t
wait for the doctor to tell you you’re over
wrought, don’t doc
tor the report that your heart is writing up
just because you can’t face
the truth, man. Be a man; better
be a bicycle. Be a bicycle & know that a click out of
step or a hum in the frame that buzzes up your butt
is decidedly
not the end, but be a bicycle
& let the equation ‘will plus inertia over
gravity equals balance’
dictate direction in your life. Feel
paths through dark woods, roll
over bumps, let stumps
bring you back to your senses but never
ever let them stop you. Hug
the earth with all her curves. Close your eyes
to too blue sky, burn fat, change flats, pedal
your power rather than wasting OR saving it. Be
a bicycle, man. Be
a bicycle.