(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.