Lonesome Bike Boy

Time to take my time.

Open the door and stick out my hand, finger the first bite of winter.

No matter, a morning without a roof makes up for the hours.

I often wonder

about a life spent out beyond the city limits.

It’s all tied together

in lattices of stories and building frames,

back along the old ways, when and where our tails meet.

Blow on your hands,

see the billowing breath of others who’ve stood here before.

Past, past doors and windows.

I can’t wait for a nod or a friendly hello.

The wheels grind crusted dust,

the hub of a possible breakdown.

Sorry, sorry I have to go.

If you wait long enough

the sprouts separate the asphalt

and conjure up a potpourrie we all remember.

It doesn’t take any sleight of hand

to dig and let loose the straw.

When I was a boy

the wind was my friend. I laughed

when the trees swayed and dragonflies

blew west into the setting sun.

Now I clutch my hat, bracing against the cold.

Hold on there,

why don’t you pick that up?

Everything has fallen here, but that doesn’t mean

any old tossing of litter

earns its place among the bones.

I remember when Mama took me into the garden

and we buried Melanie (the hamster)

among the roots.

Soil dashed across her body,

forever clothed in loam.

The cat she settled in the stillness,

pricking her ears for

scratching feet. A crow sailed

over, eyeing branches.

She curled up, hidden from view.