mid-day poem, October 15, 2016



At the top of the hill my legs are aching

As I begin the drop I click five times

And find the highest gear and begin to roll


The old, white farmhouse on my right

Was once a solid citizen

Two stories, tall windows and a roofed front porch

I have tried time and again

But still cannot tell whether it remains

Occupied or not


I am nearly flying now and I

Lean low, not pedaling

But straining to stayed tucked

And in control from this low vantage

I rush through the air and hear

Its sound like wind, but there is no wind


A line of wide-leafed plants

Along the house’s front walk

Are from some other place

Some other climate

Did she say to him

“We can afford this

And it will look nice

No one will have seen anything like it”


Now my tires whine

Against the smooth pavement

At 35, I am moving too fast to react

But I know the road


And I imagine the woman’s family

Around the dining table for lunch

In early June forty years ago

Her son, who will be the first in the family

To attend college

Is having cottage cheese overtop

The summer’s first red tomato

She tells her husband that the farm

May survive if they take to keeping bees



copyright 2016






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