Two circles, two triangles locked in against a rail
exist as geometries of mobility in immobility,
movement stuck in a silence never intended.
The front wheel swings in the direction of desire,
forward progress the only direction it knows.
Yet, it seems impossible that it stays upright.
Without a kick stand it falls easily into the dust.
Without a peddler executing a delicate balance
it wobbles aimlessly, an unguided wild thing.
Four wheelers, existing in a heaviness
that can’t be toppled over, cough gray
exhaust smoke on its fragile wheels.
It would fly if it could flap, if it had wings
but it can only roll and roll and roll,
its rider keeping enough speed for a breeze.
Only the rider ponders that they can’t fly.
the machine only knows its movement.
Color is their expression, not of itself
Pink wheels, a red crank and grips
adorned with blue streamers await
the daughter in elementary school.
Handlebars like a longhorn’s skull,
black wheels and a leather toe clip-
the boy who lives to pop wheelie’s.
Gold resting on solid yellow wheels,
an elongated seat in cheetah print-
a speedy courier dodging traffic.
Gray on a sensible, sturdy frame,
a black padded seat, a frame basket
in front- a matron grocery shopping.
All wait for the lock to unclick,
be wrapped under the seat, the
rider to turn it around and move.
I wanted to ride a bicycle, instead of dreaming about it.