Bicycles

In March you’d see them
Pulled from backyard sheds

Chains dragging, tires flat
Spread out on driveways

Like sad patients, tired pumps

Aired as the sun stampeded
The Elms and blacktop
 

Our legs pushed hard, faster
Than station wagons

Pretending freedom
Was the wind on our faces 
 

Pedaling past the Municipal

Hospital, round new green-

Laced lawns, scissortails

 

Sliced the sky
Harping their feisty language
As we stopped only to catch our breath
Or call, “Hurry up, come on!”