I don’t know why I’m out here
On worn-down tires and pitted
Chrome, red and yellow sparks
Flying in little comets from
A dirty chain, wheels wobbling
Imperceptibly in slow
Revolutions of knobbed humming,
Shifters skipping from too much use—
Every time the taut tendon
Behind my knee openly
Rebels, left elbow stiff as a
Reed, sweat stinging my eyes,
(Wet angry bees), chain skipping
Off as a metal pedal scratches
Strawberry blood from my calf,
Strain, aggravation, effort.
The cars that pass, stupid and
Resentful at my small intrusion,
Yield the minimum allowance,
Grudgingly slow down and then
Try to regain lost momentum
And thimble of gas lost in
The oblique fracas, move by
In single-file metal herds—
(Don’t look them in the headlights!)
Cars trucks and vans intent
On accuracy and motion,
(Blink in the headlights, you lose),
Delicate balance, two wheels
Becoming grass-caked grindstones,
Leading into briar ditches
Full of chrome and rubber victims,
(Keep to the road, follow the line,
The strip between road and ditch,
Try to forget the indignant sounds
Of slowing-straining-surging engines
Behind, death lighting on wheels,
Mind only the round crumbs of asphalt
Passing beneath black tires in threads
Of white-grey meteorites, (follow them
Like breadcrumbs until the road stops).
-Tim Strange