TWBC Blog

Cyclist
The immigrant pedals a chunky two wheeler,
his crusher cap picking up moisture that almost falls through the sun.
In his metal basket, he carts home groceries.
Behind him plastic bags call out the businesses where he has been.
A baguette leans curbside. As the rain falls definitely;
his face and fingers know… he leaves the street and
stops to break the bread in two. Then he reties his hold.
With a handkerchief, he dries his forehead, his cheeks. He peers skyward.
He has placed rubber bands around his cuffs.
His sweater checks the lines of his shirt.


Prayer
The most natural extension of the prayer that I was taught
is to push east and exhale what is true. I attempt to look
eye to eye, past the glare from streetlamps and headlights,
at those whom I fear. And those who I am, on occasion.
Their exhaust joins my breath. I pedal to work
where parking spots are scarce anyway, but there is
always room for a red Raleigh with Iowa plates,
Its wheels still spin like hope. My bent knees join the rain.

When I turn off the dangerous road, I can see islands through
the mist or perhaps I remember them floating past the beloved
edges that link sea and land. I am a small island on my bicycle
levitating above my heartbeat. I notice the archipelago that links
me to the folks in their cars. I am harmless enough as I pedal to work.