poetry, photography, etc.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009


I swear I just
saw my dad’s old racing bike
locked up outside the library.
It was the same minty sea green
as when it used to hang
in a tiny room in his basement
surrounded by wheels and wrenches
and nuts and bolts and a leg press.
When I was ten he took out
the bike and the leg press
and all of the junk
and painted the room white
and that’s where I slept
every other weekend
and every summer until
I was twelve and he moved
to Ohio. I don’t have a bedroom there
and he doesn’t have a bike room—
I didn’t think he rode anymore
but I swear to God I just
saw that old Bianchi locked
up right next to mine.


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