Riding Again

In its basement grave where its
been since December, my bike
stands crouched in the corner,
front wheel bent down sulking
like a chain saw whose long
leveled forest lies like
a plain, perhaps a parking
lot, or row of new houses.

Wheels remember. Ask any spiral
galaxy, its cogs reaching out
with light year fingers, it will tell
you of moving in the time
before motion, just as my
bike speaks of sweet, hot
asphalt, unbroken yellow lines
scaring potholes, it remembers
the road.

My kitchen awash in Powerade,
my sunglasses coming out of
retirement, floor pump breathing
deep gulps of air, Cliff bars in
the car, I look up. My clock
reads 11:15 - tomorrow
we ride.

Henry Crawford - 3/6/2010