I ride my poems like a bicycle, legs pumping through lines in acceleration, hands gripping the bars to navigate around obstacles.
Discarded phrases are clothespinned to the spokes, making a noise more formidable than my own.
Sometimes I ride a tricycle when I am immature, knees at my ears, plodding along and balanced.
Sometimes I go retro with a banana seat, apehanger handlebars, and a transistor radio taped to the frame. It’s all about the image.
You prefer my lightweight racer, the one with elaborate gears that smooth over reality, while I am drawn to the sturdy urban bike, with its large fendered tires and comfortable seat.
This is the one I ride without a helmet, legs straight out sideways off the pedals, screaming aloud as I fly down a hill, watching ideas shoot out the basket.