The Red Bicycle

(In homage to William Carlos William)


Outside was my red bicycle

leaning against the wall

next to a red wheelbarrow

on which nothing depended on.


I was the kind of child who

was always daydreaming

himself to victory and today

I would win the Tour de France.


So the plan was to practice

beyond my own wobbling peddling,

like the unbalanced red wheelbarrow

my father pushed among the chickens.


I felt the heat, the flame of potential speed

where so much could happen

and depended on my straight control

in a world zooming by in flame


until the wind was red wings,

only my own red thoughts ablaze

in the warp and the things I hated

of the world were longer in myself.


until I flew over the handlebars

hitting my forehead on a

sky blue Cadillac door handle,

the scar following me to the future.


Now I nick the tiny flames of memory,

as I push the red wheelbarrow

up the hill as if my life depended on it,

even as it always wobbles down.

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