my bicycle it was a taxi
whizzing up and down and around my
street from one empty driveway to
the next. driver,
me: boyfella i was,
chasing down fare after
fare, wind whistles in my ears and
now i know the whistling’s also
maples and weeping
willows but wait, the whistling!: my
passengers all vying for a ride, a
ride from
me to some
somewhere, flagging me down,
a soggy cigar cum pretzel log
jammed
in my mouth, and
billowing above,
bright ‘n’ beautiful wayward
cherryvanilla clouds, that,
and the banana-seat
bicycle’s brakes screeching
from one
empty driveway to the
next, squeaky brakes sure but
hey (chompin on my
getting-mushy pretzel log, not
mean but all-business) like
c’mon pal? after all
i’m on duty! see? look,
listen to the sheer if-
kinda squeaky
integrity
of the crackling gravel, the
bursting-with-grit of
it-all
the
soaring.
reliable lil’ cabbie i was,
soaring
through piney red and
gold gusts whatta
cool job! and my
passengers were
nice people, tips were fine BUT
(sshh please don’t
tell a soul) i
would’ve done all this
soarin’ for nuttin’: me,
stingray banana bike, together
through the october
gusts we
soared for a couple or
three hours
on a coupla may four?
sundays back then
when
all was well, really
really well.
/mr
2010/2020
Mike Rosler 