The Bicycle Poem
My legs are tired from pumping today.
I smiled at many people.
Most smiled back,
some produced a sullen fruit
which I carried awhile
and tried to not consume.
We build greenways by the river here.
I make sure my
bicycle is light
and I
glide,
pump,
glide.
I went too far.
I tired and
I rested at a small dam.
I
rested with the
water sounds
flowing and
falling in a mist.
I rested like a poem
like a painting.
I watched the lovers on the
other side of the river
as I rested.
They poked at each other
playfully and pretended to
fight for the fishing pole,
these lovers across the river.
She stood alone on the rocks
for a moment
and stretched her long thin arms
and touched the water
like a siren,
Oh tie this sailor to the boat!
I had gone too far for an old man
on his bicycle
and the sun was low and the road called,
“Home…
ride toward home.”
So I rode that bike
and now
the bicycle is in the hall and
these hands are busy hands and
the lovers are in this
poem.
amous creek paintings I cannot seem to reference. Maybe this should be one. Things don’t turn out that way though.
s a pic of my brother, Wayne Jackson.