These aluminum alloy rims
will still be spinning after I’ve passed.
Picture it: down in a rut, that bottom-
fed-excuse-for-a-creek slinging
refuse at the end of my block.
I cut the corner with back wheel slipping
and front wheel nose diving. It’s a concerted
effort with these two, they chuck me like an old shoe,
dump my body to the creek. There I expire with the soured
plastic jugs, the mold on tin and the neighbors sink water
unable to wash me down, to forget.
Or was it the bike that let them know? Tires in the air
revolving somewhere between eighth and ninth gear, the rubber
repeating: more road, more road.
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