Originally Posted by Bicycle Hang in Suburbia

There’s a bicycle hanging upside-down
on hooks in a two stall suburban garage.
The handlebars show no discolored wear marks,
no years of aging with nimble steering hands.
The tensioned-leather saddle has no dimples,
no measurement of a rider’s sit bones.
The tires have collected no rocks or glass,
no sun-based cracking or beer-bottle scars.
The chain is covered with no road slime,
no slush projected from careless motorists.
The hub bearings spin without friction,
no pitted cones or overly-viscous grease.
The steel frame can glide without creaks,
no stress-fractured lugs from potholed streets.
So, I grinded off the Japanese serial number
and threw it into the plastic artificial lake.

Originally Posted by On the road to Ocheyedan, Iowa

On the road to Ocheyedan, Iowa,
I grew my first pair of wings.
With my grandfather’s
Sears and Roebuck 10-speed bike,
I wobbled down our
coarse gravel lane.
Right past the novelty sign,
“Milton Lane” (my great,
great grandfather’s name),
runs County Road 5.

My tires were soaked in sunlight
as I flew between the trees
that decorate the roadside.
As I raced down the familiar
S-curve that leads south,
I decided to pedal through
to the next prairie hill.
Where Minnesota ends,
Iowa begins.

The road began to crack
and bubble, as if it were
a great river in spring time.
Each pothole and vibration
weaves a new patch
into my memory.
I wondered who lived here,
down the road where each
house looked less familiar
than the last.

I was soaring now,
high above each acreage,
as an eagle rested atop
each passing telephone pole.

Even now, I can taste
the feathers of June dust,
rising sweetly from the tar.