My Poetry Cycle


Is in dire need of training wheels
But every spoke has been stripped

And drowned in a tub of Coca-Cola
Near the headquarters in Atlanta

My cheap triangular seat is now ablaze
In an Orange County wild fire

Finger-printed handle bars have been melted
Into a mold for the U.S. Mint in Denver

And a pair of peddles move mechanically through
Howling nights, like a weathervane in Fargo

Now I can only imagine riding through
The cobbled streets of Boston after midnight

The Northern Lights are blinding
Like the red reflector under my bed

In the French Quarter cemetery a skeleton
Is coasting through, but upon further review

His metal frame is seated as silently as a Coney Island
Coaster in December, a vibrant decal is obscured as

All ten gears click and stick like cotton
Candy fingers, out along the beach

That old rusty chain catches my oily cheek as I was caught
Starting again with a handful of empty pop cans.