Why Every Civilized Person in America Should Use Fenders When Riding Their Bicycle In The Rain
Oh, I remember it:
the icy finger,
the sopping solitary vine
climbing my back,
an unwitting canvas
speckled with grit
and freckles of mud.
When I realized I could
not outrun the Rain,
I resigned myself
to not ride at all,
to take the bus
with the rest of America,
and their umbrellas
sitting in puddles on the floor.
Claustrophobic, I smear a porthole
through the window fogged with breath
only to see an old man gliding
alongside our wheeled submarine,
pedaling his bicycle
like it was a great black Cadillac.
His machine seemed welded to the road;
fifty pounds of steel wheeled through the night
with a slight hand, and a steady clip.
He wore a tan coat that did not bear
the indignant stripe of one made
a slave to the elements,
as I had become, in my humid metal box.