25 February 2010
five-speed and he’s going uphill. breathing through his mouth. tulips blooming along the side of the road and he doesn’t notice. boot prints in spring’s first mud. the traffic light changes; the air gets thick and musky with car fumes & honks & horns & the rattling of a beat up old mustang. he stops at the crosswalk. pedals cease centripital motion. i’m reclining on the grass on a blanket that smells like scented candles. naked and glistening, with sweat on my thighs. drunken bees dip into just-bloomed honeysuckle. gravel crackles under worn-out tires; road needs to be paved. shaved my head yesterday. wearing boots like i'm hardcore. grass blades stretch to touch his toned calves and he doesn’t even notice. i stare right at him. long nose. crooked smile. deep-set eye sockets, irises inky ocean blue. i want to touch his eyeball just to make sure. light changes again. re-mount and he’s zooming off through the crosswalk. tulip mouths suck in air after he passes. clouds come closer to earth. i’m dancing to a gypsy jig with a tambourine. what things people never have the time to see.