YELLOW BIKE
I ride into work today
it's a race against time
this four miles to Northampton
straight down Route 10
blast the cars and trucks for the diesel and sand
they blow in my face
that with the pollen triggers my asthsma
which kicks up just when I have to spin my hardest
to make the 8 o'clock bus
my nose is so full of snot that I can't breathe anymore
so I have to blow it out my nostrils
I try not to do it when a car goes by
or they get a spray on their windows
but it usually smears across my face and windbreaker
These are the fastest fifteen minutes of my day
I warm up slow and easy,
but by the time I hit the highway
I'm feeling my heart hit my chest
like Mo Tucker's floor toms
breathing staccato hi-hat crashes.
My legs mock me with a scornful and delicious pain
but my head stops responding
and all I think is "FORWARD FASTER"
I'm getting just warm enough to fight back
against the 35 degree frost
at 40 years old I have never felt so on fire
It reminds me the fierceness with
which I used to live my life at 17
when passion ran as hot as molten tar in my body
and the nuclear energy I put into just being alive.
The last stretch is the hardest,
the race to the light at Old South Street;
if I don't make the green, I might miss the bus
quick assessment of my chances of cruisng in an ambulance
and I scream through the light
'round Pulaski Park
get off, and wait for the M40 Express with a faint smile
feeling a little out of focus, like the first drag of a joint
Hoist my bike up on the rack;
the weight wrenches my neck and back,
but I can feel my shoulder muscles getting stronger
On the bus for a bit of relaxation and good reading
I run my hands over the muscles in my legs
rippling like ropes of thick rubber
down my thighs, bulging around my knees
and flattening out into hard slabs of meat around my calves
A prickly warmth on my skin, a hum of vibration in my thighs
Assessing the damage
My pants are covered with grease and tire marks
my gloves are full of sour sweat and are coming unstitched
from so much use. Fingernails are always dirty.
As I cool down, I feel the sweat start to collect in my
matted hair and run down the back of my neck.
Off the bus again, and onto my bike,
racing through campus, down the dirt road
and the narrow path through the woods,
spinning up mud and bits of decaying leaves
on my trouser legs.
By the time I get to work
and saunter into the Gleaming Halls of Capitalism
my "business casual" shirt is soaked through
I'm starting to smell noticeably of sweat
grass pollen, fuel exhaust and road dirt.
My boss calls me "Swamp Thing"
to my computer
I am the Headless Horseman.
I ride into work today
it's a race against time
this four miles to Northampton
straight down Route 10
blast the cars and trucks for the diesel and sand
they blow in my face
that with the pollen triggers my asthsma
which kicks up just when I have to spin my hardest
to make the 8 o'clock bus
my nose is so full of snot that I can't breathe anymore
so I have to blow it out my nostrils
I try not to do it when a car goes by
or they get a spray on their windows
but it usually smears across my face and windbreaker
These are the fastest fifteen minutes of my day
I warm up slow and easy,
but by the time I hit the highway
I'm feeling my heart hit my chest
like Mo Tucker's floor toms
breathing staccato hi-hat crashes.
My legs mock me with a scornful and delicious pain
but my head stops responding
and all I think is "FORWARD FASTER"
I'm getting just warm enough to fight back
against the 35 degree frost
at 40 years old I have never felt so on fire
It reminds me the fierceness with
which I used to live my life at 17
when passion ran as hot as molten tar in my body
and the nuclear energy I put into just being alive.
The last stretch is the hardest,
the race to the light at Old South Street;
if I don't make the green, I might miss the bus
quick assessment of my chances of cruisng in an ambulance
and I scream through the light
'round Pulaski Park
get off, and wait for the M40 Express with a faint smile
feeling a little out of focus, like the first drag of a joint
Hoist my bike up on the rack;
the weight wrenches my neck and back,
but I can feel my shoulder muscles getting stronger
On the bus for a bit of relaxation and good reading
I run my hands over the muscles in my legs
rippling like ropes of thick rubber
down my thighs, bulging around my knees
and flattening out into hard slabs of meat around my calves
A prickly warmth on my skin, a hum of vibration in my thighs
Assessing the damage
My pants are covered with grease and tire marks
my gloves are full of sour sweat and are coming unstitched
from so much use. Fingernails are always dirty.
As I cool down, I feel the sweat start to collect in my
matted hair and run down the back of my neck.
Off the bus again, and onto my bike,
racing through campus, down the dirt road
and the narrow path through the woods,
spinning up mud and bits of decaying leaves
on my trouser legs.
By the time I get to work
and saunter into the Gleaming Halls of Capitalism
my "business casual" shirt is soaked through
I'm starting to smell noticeably of sweat
grass pollen, fuel exhaust and road dirt.
My boss calls me "Swamp Thing"
to my computer
I am the Headless Horseman.