Friday poem

I'm posting an original poem every Friday for a year. This is 12/52. For anyone who's ridden a bike in city traffic.

Bike Lane

I saw you, but you didn't see me. So you can have it all, the

wide turning lane, the

narrow shoulder, the amber caution light set against the blue wash of dusk, the Labrador lolling its happy head from the window of a Jeep, on the scent of home. Take it, the too-

fast red convertible, its driver, phone clasped to ear, the modern ocean shell,

a wash of words that might have waited. Take the simple clean small alto of her tire on the curb,

the bass thump of the green Honda gyring left,

its arc too narrow for its momentum, its silvered steel bumper swinging wide to

almost nick the mailbox dozing on the corner. The sharp intake of breath that makes you forget

the milk you didn't pick up, the papers unsigned, the wife waiting dinner for you.

These are yours.

Stop. Ease left of the narrow white line

that guards the three feet of concrete set aside for me.

These few feet are mine;

they have my outline, my round white head,

my stick arms straight,

my stick legs churning,

chalk marks at a crime scene.