My legs still ache from those years of grocery shopping,
Pumping pedals, cutting wind, and uncut curb top hopping.
I can still feel the broken rib from flipping the handlebars,
Supine splayed on the road beside you, ignored by passing cars.
My heart fluttered in our breeze on summery Saturday nights,
Driven by human yearning to the bars’ mendacious neon lights.
Following spring’s march, we’d crash through reborn brush.
Green and mud caked spoke and chain, begging for a flush.
How will I plow through reddening forest, now autumn is arrived,
Into a chanterelle patch to claim what furtive fruit has thrived?
The faded purple cross bar winking from the locking stand,
Has been purloined and probly pawned; nothing’s gone as planned